Say you Love Me
by General Schemer
Summary: When Bond screws up his last assignment and winds up in a hospital, M has has a surprise for him... and it's one he didn't expect. 'Bond was a man of action, and acting swiftly on simple orders had always been his formula for success; but these last orders were the most devilishly difficult he'd ever received'. The writing should have a slightly retro feel but the setting is modern
1. Good Morning Mister Bond

**Summary: ** Cutting my teeth on Ian Fleming paperbacks, I've been a little distressed on how the series has been going as of late. There are ways I feel, to modernize the series and yet maintain the human interest side of the story with proper character development. This is my take on how the series might move forward.

**Rating:** M, of course. After all, it's James Bond.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. I'll even throw in the OC's.

**A/N:** I'll try to update on a timely basis, but I won't swear to every week. It will depend on the readers, and I'm a little unsure about what to expect in this fandom.

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* * *

**Say you Love Me**

**Chapter 1.**

**Good Morning Mister Bond**

There are moments in the life of a secret agent when determination and the call of duty begin to give way to self preservation and common sense. For James Bond, one of those moments was occurring right now. It should be a simple thing to pull off. Le Chiffres' automobile would be making its way down International Boulevard before the light of dawn. The silver Mercedes sport coupe should be easy to spot and the Aston Martin should be more than a match for it. But the devil was in the details and the tip to intercept Le Chiffre had not come without a price. He had been going for twenty eight hours straight, and he was past tired. It could have been one or two too many martinis. It could have been too many custom made Morlands but either way his vision was beginning to blur and sleep deprivation was hammering at his head.

If he called off the hunt tonight then it might take days or weeks of work to get this kind of opportunity again. But if he continued and made a mess of things then he might find himself completely out of the running – or dead. Bond took several deep breaths and felt the pulse slow to a normal beat. He felt the reassuring tug of the ancient Walther against his jacket. A quick glance at the Rolex and the second hand seemed to be moving too slow. For years, the gun stood bravely between him and the specter of death. And on occasions like this it was one of his dearest friends. M had tried for years to persuade him to upgrade. 'The Ballistics are dismal, it holds too few rounds, and impossible around airports', he would say.

Bond took another deep breath and his vision cleared. Right on cue as a silver Mercedes coupe flew past with a single passenger. He reached for the ignition button and pressed. After a brief growl of the starter, twelve sirens began their throaty song. He pulled out of the alley and entered the deserted Boulevard and pressed hard on the pedal. Acceleration pushed him back into the seat...

**Six Months Earlier**

Muffled voices, and random patches of light were interrupting a wonderful dream. With reality tugging at his sleeve, Bond grudgingly awoke from the dream. Everything looked bright white and his first thought was one of heaven and an afterlife that was always nipping at his heels. Logic finally prevailed as Bond knew he was no candidate for heaven. Squinting until his eyes adjusted to the light, the outline of a hospital room began clearly taking form.

"Good morning Mister Bond," called a beautiful female voice.

Turning to face the voice, a lovely face with a nurse's cap was smiling pleasantly.

"Good morning," Bond finally managed. "Have I died and gone to heaven?"

"Not quite, but you gave us a frightful scare."

"Sorry about that," he said and shook cobwebs out of his head. "Where am I and how long have I been here?"

"Saint Pancres Hospital," she replied and hesitated. "...for two weeks."

"Christ... what the bloody hell happened?"

"Not too fast Mister Bond. You need to rest and the doctor will be in to answer those questions shortly."

Bond clenched the muscles of his jaw and a stabbing shot of pain ran over the side and top of his head. Hands buried under the covers, he struggles to get them out and to feel his head. The nurse was opening the blinds to let in light when his hand reached the troubling area on his head. Only he couldn't feel his head. His head was covered in a turban of gauze wrapped several layers deep.

"What the hell?"

The nurse twisted around to see Bond fumbling with his bandages. The belt over her white nurses frock cinched her waist tightly. Her figure was curvacious and ample.

"Mister Bond please... you shouldn't do that. You've suffered an injury to the head."

"Well, why didn't you tell me?" he fired back.

She pointed a lovely finger complete with nail varnish.

"You be still – I'll get the doctor."

"What's your name?"

"Huh?" she asked with a perplexed face.

"Your name," he repeated and managed a smile.

"Miss Perkins."

"Miss Perkins, please hurry."

:

With his frustrations becoming unbearable, a grey haired bespectacled man entered the room. He was rather tall and thin and thumbing new pages on a worn clipboard. The tag over the pocket of his white smock read 'Dr. Adams'. Bond watched the man read carefully from the clipboard before looking up or speaking. He turned over one more page meticulously, shook his head and then looked up to Bond. He had piercing clear grey eyes.

"Well, glad to hear from Miss Perkins you're awake this morning."

"Yes, what's the story doc... how long have I been out and when can I go?"

"Please, Mister Bond you've had a serious accident."

"Yes, I realize that – but what kind of accident?"

"A gun shot – to the head."

"Oh I see," replied Bond, and he touched the side of his head figuratively.

"Oh, you needn't worry about it. You're much better. It was a graze actually, and along the hairline. Once the swelling has gone done, none will be the wiser," he and smiled.

"Well, how the hell did this happen?"

The doctor flushed slightly.

"I really couldn't say Mister Bond. When they brought you in you were in and out of it. Pressure on the brain from a blood clot. We induced a coma to reduce the swelling and fed you blood thinners for the first week."

"The first week – my God, how long have I been here?"

"Ten days Mister Bond," he replied flatly.

"Well, I've got to get out of here. I have to report to superiors, you see..."

Bond began to rise and then fell back. Doctor Adams threw up his right palm in protest.

"We've been given complete instructions – by M – to keep you here as long as we need to," he insisted.

All this time nurse Perkins had been standing behind the doctor for support, but wearing a helpless and confused expression along with the tight white nurses frock. Bond fixed his gaze on her steadily.

"Well, hell. We don't want to disappoint the boss, do we?"

‡‡‡‡‡

It was a beautiful morning on his first day back. His first day back – hell, it had been another week before Doctor Adams had finally consented to let him leave. Nurse Perkins had helped, he'd imagined. He'd chatted her up constantly during the week and he was quite sure she was glad to see the last of him.

Moneypenny's perfume sent a strong signal to his damaged senses that he was back. He could smell it before he opened the door to M's compartment.

"James!" Moneypenny exclaimed and jumped up. "Let me look at you," she added and checked him out from head to toe, but concentrating more on his head.

He gave her a little kiss on the forehead, reassuringly.

"All in one piece Moneypenny."

"You had us worried James."

"I'll try not to do it again," he said and Moneypenny smiled but looked a little nervous.

"Well, I've got a letter to finish James and M had a ring from a foreign dignitary. We'll talk after – and M will be with you in a minute," she added and glanced toward the row of uncomfortable waiting chairs.

Bond caught the nervous look from Moneypenny. It meant M was pissed. The old man was probably furious after the flap on his last assignment. His last assignment – it was coming back to him clearly now – what had happened. That last punter had come from nowhere – out of thin air and taken a lucky potshot from behind his back. It had been like a crack in the side of the head with a cricket bat. He'd been knocked out cold and the hostage he'd been assigned to rescue was taken. Taken, and then assassinated a few days later. All on his cock-up.

The leather padded door opened with a pneumatic swish followed by soft heavy footsteps. Normally M had Moneypenny clear him to go in. It was a rare thing for M to personally escort him and Bond could make no sense of it. It must have something to do with the injury he thought.

"James, so good to see you – come in."

Bond popped out of the chair and followed M into the room. This was not the reception he'd expected. Maybe his wounds had been more serious than he had known because of all of his years in the service M had never referred to him as 'James'.

M casually motioned toward the leather chair opposite his desk and spun on one heel toward his own. Bond took the chair obediently and waited for M to begin.

"Well, 007 – first off, we're happy to have you back."

"Thank you sir."

M reached for the pipe and while holding it from the bowl, he pointed the stem at Bond.

"You know you were lucky after that last assignment. If your assailant hadn't been such a lousy shot you'd be 'Hor's de Combat'."

_Okay this is where his mood would change. Now that the formalities were out the way, his arse-chewing would begin very soon._

"Sir, I'm very sorry about that mistake – and the hostage of course."

But M didn't begin with an arse-chewing, he only nodded deeply and with regret.

"Yes – well," he began slowly and most uncharacteristically. "It's water over the dam Bond – all water over the dam."

A_t least he was back to 'Bond' now. That was a damned relief._

It was time for Bond to nod deeply and after a moments silence he noticed M nervously checking a teleprompter panel on his desk. When the silence was damn near uncomfortable a little green light blinked and M pressed a lever switch and bent over the machine to speak.

"Send her in," he said to Moneypenny.

"Yes sir," she replied, statically.

The outer door of the leather covered double doors opened and then the second. A tall and rather good looking woman entered formally and paused in front of M. She paid no attention to Bond who had began to rise politely.

"Good morning M," she spoke with a copper colored voice.

"Good morning double-O nine," he addressed. "Bond meet Samantha Starling," he stated and motioned for her to take a chair alongside Bond's.

"Please sir, just Sam," she added and took Bond's extended hand. Her touch was cool and dry.

"Glad to meet you Sam."

"Good to meet you double O seven," she replied dryly.

Sam, as she preferred to be called, took the seat as M had instructed. In a matter of seconds Bond saw the woman in an entirely different light. With her attention moved towards the chair, Bond gave her a quick look over. She was tall at about five foot ten or close to it. Her straight hair was a mousey brown pageboy with a fringe and cut rather short, just past the nape of the neck and shy of the shoulders. She was wearing a midnight blue suit with a double-breasted jacket and a white blouse. The matching skirt was short and almost to mid-thigh. Shapely legs came to an end with two inch heels. _My-God, the woman was almost all legs._ Bond imagined she ran three to five miles a day and at least put an hour or more on a stair-master to build race-boat gams. With those legs, it would be a shame if she wasn't trained in the martial arts. She was a damned attractive killing machine.

"Getting on to business," announced M. "You two will working together – until Sam gets adjusted to the double O section. You'll have a series of light duties until such a time that 009 can take it on her on."

"Roughly; how long will that be sir?" she asked, rather uncomfortably.

"Until 007 thinks you're ready," he came back, hard and flat.

"Yes, sir."

There was an uncomfortable silence that fell across the room.

"Well then, welcome aboard 009," said M, trying to be upbeat. "We won't hold you any longer on this, but I will talk with you again later."

"Thank you sir," she replied to M and nodded politely to Bond before leaving through the padded doors.

Bond sat there with a slightly puzzled look on his face.

"I know what you're thinking," snapped M.

"Well, yes sir – but are we wet-maiding the new double Os now?"

"Well get to that in a moment – but first take a look at this."

M studied Bond's reaction carefully and then lifted a folder from his desk and slid it over to him. The folder was labeled ' Steganography' in red letters.

"What do you know about this subject?" asked M.

"Some sort of computer coding I think."

"That's pretty close. It's the process of cryptically embedding information in computer picture files – files that would be viewable on websites anywhere in the world. Common trading sites like _Ebay_ \- social media sites like _Facebook_ and damned thing called _Twitter_ or something. They all begin by altering the files, JPEGs I think they call them, by inserting hidden codes – oh, and those little moving picture files too. The pictures look perfectly innocent and you'd never know the codes exist until you run a special program to extract the information."

"That's all very interesting, but how does it concern us?"

"With the information we've been intercepting it concerns us quite a bit. Some of it turns out to be involved in the business of human trafficking into various places in Europe. We've been picking out this information for years with no idea what it was connected to. Now that we know - we need to see whose behind this 007. It should be a good start for our new agent. A fair test, but not too dangerous."

"A fair test but not too dangerous," Bond repeated with a hint of amusement. "Human trafficking – Young females?"

"Not all – some children."

"Where's it originating from – do we know?"

"We don't know for sure, but suspect some of it's from London. Q-branch can fill you in on the technicalities."

Bond took time to consider M's comment.

"Very well sir, I'll get started with Q-branch, but it leads to my original question. I've never worked with someone before, so why start now."

"She'll need some of your experience Bond – some of your skills."

"Of course sir – but why."

"Because you're training her to be your replacement Bond."

Bond fell back in the chair, his mouth slightly agape.

"Is this some kind of joke?"

"No, it certainly is not. And don't underestimate this woman or take her for granted. I've read her dossier and it's damned near unbelievable."

Bond took the shot gracefully. You could tell it hurt, but he held back the pain. He paused a moment or two to formulate the response.

"I know you're upset over that last one sir – but I can assure you that won't happen again. I can promise you that. Maybe with a little time in Shrublands – you know, to eliminate the free radicals," he added, trying his best to be upbeat.

M shook his head slowly.

"I'm afraid not James." Twice, M had referred to him by his christian name. A first if Bond's memory was correct. "You've been in the field long enough, I'm afraid. You'll hold the double O rank until your replacement is ready... and then I'm afraid that's it old man. We'll try and keep you in a training position as long as possible. That would be better than polishing a chair with your arse wouldn't it?"

"Just barely," Bond reluctantly agreed.


	2. In Through the Out Door

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**Say you Love Me**

**Chapter 2.**

**In Through the Out Door**

Bond was a man of action, and acting swiftly on simple orders had always been his formula for success; but these last orders were over the top. He never planned for his retirement from the service and never imagined he'd live long enough to be let out to pasture. But now that the time was near, he wasn't ready for it and he wasn't prepared to go through with it. To hell with M and his notion of bringing a woman into the double Os. There were other branches of service and plenty of similar jobs in the private sector. There was no need to humiliate himself in such a way as M suggested.

The times had changed and there was no way to avoid the plethora of changes that went with it. Nearly every occupation and various branches of service had women replacing men every day. He just never thought it would happen to him. But even at that there nothing terrible unusual about a women holding the rank of double O. What was puzzling was M's decision to allow Bond to train her. That didn't make any sense at all. Why the hell would Bond want to do that. Why would he care? Maybe M was indeed losing his mind.

On the morning after, and still resolute in his actions, Bond dropped in the offices for correspondence and borrowed a computer and printer. He quickly fashioned his resignation letter in brief form:

Per clause 204, this letter is notice of my intention to tender resignation with MI6.

Effective immediately.

Regards,

signed James Bond

James Bond

Looking the letter over carefully, Bond slowly folded and stuffed it into an envelope. Moneypenny was sitting pleasantly at her desk and filing reports of some kind when entered.

"James!" she said, surprised.

"Penny, be a good girl and ring M."

"Sorry James, but he's already on the line with some foreign office."

Bond looked heavenward and drew a deep lungful of air. Moneypenny was looking puzzled now. He desperately wanted to see the old man's reaction but didn't want to wait. Hell if he waited, he might not go through with it.

"Well, can you give this to him then?" he asked and dropped the letter on her desk.

She picked up the unaddressed envelope and studied it for clues.

"What is it James?" she demanded.

"Just give it to him please."

Moneypenny glared back, irresolute. Bond stared at her until compliance began to replace her sour expression.

"Of course James," she replied at last.

Bond smiled unevenly, said goodbye to Moneypenny and proceeded out of the office. He got down to the canteen for a coffee to-go and was almost out the front door when a security man came running after him.

"Are you Bond?" the man asked, almost out of breath. Hardly anyone in MI6 knew their fellow employees by their real names.

Bond paused reluctantly, toying with the idea of continuing.

"Yes," he said at length.

"You've been ordered back up sir."

"Ordered up – by who?"

"Didn't say sir. They just said to get your... well, for you to get back up."

Bond grinned at the man's difficulty.

"Okay, back up it is then."

The man looked relieved and Bond went straight away to the suite of offices labeled 'Universal Exports'. Moneypenny was smiling contentedly as Bond paused at her desk.

"What's this all about?" demanded Bond.

"M will see you now," she said, smiling like the cat who ate the Canary.

Bond snarled something unintelligible and turned toward M's door. Feeling less proud of himself than he did when he wrote the resignation, he pushed though the double doors. M was concentrating on something at his desk and hadn't seen fit to look up. Bond took his usual seat in front of M's desk and waited.

M picked up Bond's resignation notice and pried open the folded sheets meticulously.

"Have you thought this through?"

Bond started to reply and froze.

"You know, you can't just walk out of here like that," he went on.

"Well then, how _do_ I go about it sir?"

"Don't be cheeky with me Bond. You've acquired a decent pension. One you'll lose if you just walk out of here. Besides, you know there's more to leaving a double O position than just walking out the front door. What were you thinking?"

"That I'm not ready to call it quits sir. I feel like there's more left."

M reflected on this for a few moments.

"At the very least, a month would be proper notice. Hell, even in the private sector they give two weeks. I'll tell you what - take this assignment I've given you and we'll meet again in one month. If you still want out, we'll address this again."

_Address this again._ It didn't sound too accommodating. In one month, they'd be having the same argument all over. Still, that bit about the pension would be foolish to ignore. He could hardly afford to lose it. Even if he was determined to leave, he'd have to do so properly.

"Okay sir – one month," he said and began to rise. M did likewise and handed Bond the resignation letter.

"Good," M said encouragingly. "Now get with 009 and down to Q branch."

Bond nodded as if to apologize for this whole misunderstanding. Without further dialogue he scampered up and out of M's office and jetted past Moneypenny's smiling face. With no idea where 009 was keeping herself, he wandered the corridors aimlessly. All the while, M's proposal kept rolling through his head. There was something he didn't like about it. It was the way he had so quickly acquiesced to M. It was quite unsettling. With another quick flush of anger, he ducked into the canteen for another coffee and almost ran into agent Starling.

"Oh – there you are," she said with a bemused look. Bond stood there, trying to speak, mouth slightly agape.

"Wondered where you were. M said we should check with Q branch."

"Uh – yes. Was just about to grab a coffee – would you fancy a cup?" he asked, politely.

Agent Starling smiled unevenly and followed Bond through the line. Bond often drank his coffee black, but stopped by a table for cream and sugar. Thinking he wanted to sit, she grabbed a chair and Bond did the same.

"So, you've been briefed on the case?" he asked and tore open two, five gram packets of sugar.

"Yes, M called me in yesterday afternoon," she replied and touched the hot cup to her lips.

"I see," he said aimlessly and carefully poured the sugar into the coffee and slowly stirred with a wooden stir stick. "Do you know much about computers?"

She smiled. "Yes, a little. How about you?"

"Only enough to grasp what M was saying. Hopefully Q will be able to help."

"Yeah," she replied and smiled thinly. The talk about computers was just chitchat and agent Starling knew it. Q would provide all the technical help they needed for that end. Their real job would begin with the people behind the computers – and the people behind them.

Today agent Starling's long legs were covered in trousers. Her business-like outfit was completed with a jacket over a crème colored top with a thin tie. The trousers were dark grey and attractive in a professional way. She'd foregone the heels for a soft soled loafer. He wondered what kind of gun she carried.

"Look," she injected with a shake of her head. "I hope you're not too angry about this assignment."

"No, I'm not," he lied.

"There's been rumors,"

"Really," he replied with genuine surprise. "At MI6 – there's rumors?"

Agent Starling nodded. "I can assure you of my qualifications Bond. If that's what's bugging you."

Bond gave her comments time to sink in but couldn't shake the chilliness between them. Her verbal assurances were not enough and his silence obviously annoyed her.

"What would it take then?"

Bond scrunched his brows and studied the question.

"The range is downstairs. That would be a good place to start."

Bond had been – for many years – one of the best shots in the department. His form was a little off from his best at the moment but nothing shabby. If Starling could back up the talk she should be every bit as good.

"Fine," she announced and immediately rose from the table. From that point on agent Starling was all business. Avoiding further chitchat they made straight-away for the firing range. Pushing open double doors, all five lanes were available. Bond chose the two on the left.

"Three or five shot groups?" she called out.

"Let's make it five." The last thing Bond wanted was three lucky shots and her calling it quits. Five would be better. She took the far left lane and reached into her jacket. Unholstering her weapon, Starling extended the Glock 19 for feel and then set it on a small accessory table. The weapon resembled the standard issue absent the edgy knurl at the front of the trigger guard, which had been filed off. The front and read rear sights also appeared smoother than the out of the box version. Grabbing huge foam-lined earcups hanging on a hook, she quickly nestled the cups onto her head, deforming the perfect bell shape of the mousey-brown pageboy.

Eyes glued to her form, Bond watch Starling begin to squeeze off five shots. With perfect consistency, she reeled off the shots with even pressure on the trigger, the grip, and reaction to recoil. After all the consistently timed shots were fired, she casually set the piece back on the counter and pressed the target retrieval button.

The results were apparent long before the target reached the shooter. The five shots were close enough that a small hole the size of a grape was missing from the center of the target.

"Your turn," she said turning to Bond.

Bond swallowed hard, fit the foam lined cups over his ears, and drew the Walther from it's holster. Taking a couple of deep breaths, he let his arms relax took a statue-like aim. Releasing the safety, the five shots rang out a little quicker than Starling's but felt good. He exhaled a deep breath and pulled in the target.

The group was good with one flyer a inch or more away from the main pattern. Not as good as Starling's.

"Ah, one slipped away," Bond griped, referring to the flyer.

"Not bad for a shorter barrel. Didn't know anyone carried those anymore."

"M's been trying to get me to change for years."

Starling smiled at his stubbornness.

"So – are we good here?"

"You're a damned fine shot. But targets seldom shoot back."

"No, they don't," she came right back. "And tell me – how good are you without the gun?"

"Huh?"

"Without the gun – how good are you then?"

"You mean – self defense?"

She paused and, with a sly grin, looked him over.

"Yeah. If we're caught without the weapons, I was wondering what I could count on."

_Bitch – what a bloody cheek._

"What do you have in mind?" Bond asked.

"The mat-room is just over there," she said and canted her head.

"I don't have trainers or a kit for that," he replied with an amused grin.

"We can take off the jackets and go barefoot," she suggested and turned toward the mat room.

_So she did have training in martial arts – figured as much at first sight._

With a little too much enthusiasm for comfort, Starling removed her jacket and shoulder holster and placed them on a convenient hook. She kicked off her flats while Bond shed the coat and gun. She was already practicing head-high kicks before he could come out of his shoes and socks.

"You need to stretch or warmup?" she offered.

"Just a minute," lied Bond, and so it began. After a few moves in slow motion, Bond nodded for the action to commence.

Starling moved like her limbs were robotically attached. Each foot, with toes gripping the padded floor, moved like the bottoms of her feet were coated with adhesive. Bond on the contrary felt arms and legs loosely connected like a rag-doll.

Two staccato steps forward, and with no defense by Bond, Starling let fly a chest high front kick. It landed but Bond had retreated enough to take away any power from the kick. Automatically he snapped out a sweep kick that would have put most combatants on their arse. Starling jumped the kick and immediately went for a spinning heel kick to Bond's jaw. Luckily, he managed to get a palm up to break impact of a kick that would normally put him on his backside. The heel hit the palm with a soggy slap. Like a vise, his hand wrapped her foot and wrenched it with a torquing movement. She let out a little scream and twisted her body to match Bond's action. She pulled the other foot out from under her and went down on her back, slapping the mat with her hands to relieve the impact. Perfect Judo form. With Starling on her back, Bond feigned a stomp to the soft underbelly but stopped short. Just in time to match Starlings counter front kick to the bollocks. With his left leg he launched another sweep to force her legs to the left and then fell on top of her for the pin.

With fire in her eyes, Bond blocked a punch to his face and pinned her shoulders to the ground. For an instant, she was shocked and then pissed. She wriggled under his weight but was unable to break free.

Her hair was splashed about the mat and the wet lips looked inviting. He thought on this matter for just a second – a second too long. She wriggled her hips free and was about to go for a knee to the nuts.

"That's enough," he barked.

"Speak for yourself."

Bond relaxed and pulled himself off the pretty pugilist.

"I think we know each other well enough now," he offered.

Starling looked relieved at this and nodded once before going for her shoes. Sitting on the floor, Bond slipped back into socks and his own shoes but never took his eyes off Starling who was busy looking at nothing at all. Reluctantly, he had to admit to himself that luck had kept him from getting his arse kicked. He still didn't know why his hand just happened to be in the right place to block the heel kick. At any rate, she'd made a damned good showing on all accounts.

Starling slipped her arms though the shoulder holster as routinely as if putting on a brassiere. She looked appealing doing it for reasons Bond couldn't immediately phantom. Catching his eye she quickly slipped her jacket on and checked her appearance in the mirror before they turned for the door. Bond waited for Starling to pass first. For a moment he flushed, realizing this reactionary move was outdated and inappropriate. After all, this was a modern woman and a killer – just like himself.

‡‡‡‡‡

In the old days, Q worked in a noisy shop that resembled a cellar. There were machine smells composed of oil and petrol and some pungent odors that defined explanation. It had been a dark place, overall. Squarely in the digital age that had all changed. Mechanical devices had given way to digital toys and contraptions, and as the parts became smaller, the lighting and working conditions had greatly improved.

Entering the lab where Q spent most of his time, Bond finally spotted the bespectacled tinkerer fiddling with some device on a table cluttered with electrical gizmos. Q finally spotted the two and looked up. He took only a passing glance at Bond but did a double-take with agent Starling. He waited patiently for Bond to explain the interruption.

"Good morning Q," began Bond and Q nodded but focused on Bond's partner. "And this is Saman – Sam Starling."

"Nice to meet you Sam."

"And you," replied Sam, clueless as to Q's name.

"Now what can I do for you Bond?"

"Computers," snapped back Bond. "M tells us the criminals are using ads on Ebay now."

"Ah, that bit concerning steganography. Yes, our readers – the people digging through all those webpages – have been finding coded pieces of information in picture files for years. Damned hard to trace back to the source."

"But someone had to create the account?" answered Sam.

"Yes, but it's never the people supplying the altered files. Most of the account owners are working on behalf of someone else – someone without a face. On top of that most of the information is scrambled. The cryptologists can explain all that," M stated flatly. "And that's who you'll have to talk to next. Bradley – he's the guy you'll want to see."

Allowing Sam a quick goodbye to Q, Bond went straight away to Bradley's office with 009 in tow. Bradley, of whom Bond had worked with only once, was located in a huge room full of computers and operators, constantly scanning the internet for threats.

His office was at the end of the large bay with dozens of computer operators. Most were in tiny cubicles, each one decorated in a hopeless effort to make the beehive arrangement a little more personal. Some had coke cans stacked in a distinctive pattern while others used pictures, posters, and strings of lights to achieve the same effect. Yellow post-it notes were ubiquitously strewn.

A few looked away from their huge flatscreens as Bond passed, but most kept their eyes glued to the huge monitors. Bradley looked up just in time to catch them approaching the open door.

"Good morning Bond," he addressed with his eyes fixed on Bond's attractive contemporary.

"Good morning," echoed Bond. "Bradley, this is agent Starling."

"Glad to meet you Starling. About time we had some new faces around here. What can I do for you two today?"

"Q sent us. This business on computer files - steganography I think they call it."

Instantly Bradley furrowed his brows.

"Oh, I see. Wondered when M would get off his arse about that. Tricky business – do you understand it?"

"Of course not," Bond quipped. "I'm a field agent."

"Well, in nutshell – these people involved in human trafficking are easily able to get information to operatives anywhere in the world, without the use of cellphones or email, which is easily tracked."

"So where do we start?" Bond asked, helplessly.

Bradley smiled and began to dig through a small mountain of papers on his desk. It seemed a little odd that the chief of computing operations would resort to paper copies.

"I'll make it easy for you. This is an excerpt from a report that went out just the other day," he said and waved the sheets back and forth. "It's a list of account names on Ebay."

"What's special about that – good deals?" quipped Bond.

"Damned right," Bradley fired back. "Every one of these dealers, has at one time or another, listed a sale on Ebay with an infected file. Infected with codes of some kind."

"We need to check every one of those?" asked Bond, looking at the sheets of names.

"No, we'll make it easier still and grind out the names and addresses of those with products actively listed."

"Are those brokers of some kind?" asked Starling.

"Yes, they are – for the most part. Some large and small. It works like this: individuals or bad guys take their wares to these brokers to list and package the items. Of course they charge for the packaging and postage and take a percentage of the sale. Slick business – millions of pounds worth of goods sold right here in London."

"But what would they know about the people behind this?" queried Bond.

"Afraid that's your job old man," countered Bradley. "But, if you get stuck, we may be able to help."

Bond nodded but looked none too happy about the assignment.

"Remember," cautioned Bradley. "Whoever is behind this is doing something very nasty with this information. So find them."

* * *

_**A/N:** Thanks for reading and the comments from MadameBeast._


	3. Pink Flamingos

:

**Say you Love Me**

**Chapter 3.**

**Pink Flamingos**

"How do we handle this?"

"We – you mean you."

"I did?"

"Yes, you did."

"Okay, then how do I handle this?"

A black Mercedes shot out from the curb, clearly in the path of Starling's BMW. A quick expletive deleted, followed by a racing change, and the silver BWM shot around the Mercedes to continue down Shaftsbury Avenue, unimpeded.

"You drive like a man."

"That's a sexist remark. One complaint to Human Resources and you could get fired for that."

"Well, hell. If I'd just known that earlier," he quipped.

She shot him a glance through the oversized Ray Bans.

"Is it really that bad – working with a woman?"

"I wouldn't know. Ask me when this is over."

"Oh Bullshit. You've never worked with a woman."

"No."

"Never?"

"Of course not – there were never any in the Navy. And never in this job till now."

"Oh hell, there's women in the Navy."

"Never any in my area."

Starling shook her head, hair flowing behind her, in the open convertible.

"Back to the job. You think the Brokers have any knowledge of who's behind this."

"Of course. They'd have to. But that's all they know – and maybe contact information," Bond replied and looked deeply into an alley off Shaftsbury.

"So how do we get it?"

"Well... how _you_ get it might go like this: You enter the shop. Ask about the package Bradley sent us. Here's the ticket stub." He hands Starling the claim ticket. "While they disappear to get the package, you take a picture of the security system with your phone. With any luck Q will have a toy for us to defeat it by tonight."

"That sounds easy enough. Where do you come in?"

"I'm your backup."

"What if the plan doesn't work?"

"Doesn't work? Expound."

"Well, for starters there could be two people behind the counter. And only one goes for the package. What do I do then?"

"You improvise. Two guys – two girls – a gent and a girl – what?"

"Let's say a guy and a girl."

"Okay, then who goes back for the package – the gent or the girl?"

"How, would I know. You're the expert."

"If the package is very large then the guy goes back for it. I'll have to come in and distract the girl."

"Sounds fair so far, but what if it's the girl that goes back and I'm left with the guy."

"Then you should have worn the short skirt and heels you wore yesterday."

"Hey that's another sexist remark!"

"Yes, I suppose it is – and our target is coming up, right around this next corner."

Starling quickly ducked the nimble BMW in the direction Bond pointed.

The quick banter had melted a little of the ice between them and it was none to early. It might be too early for these thoughts, but Bond was beginning to imagine this assignment might not turn out too bad.

The narrow alley off Shaftsbury quickly ran into a vein of old London, or what looked like it. The buildings had none of the freshly scrubbed looks and shiny facades as those on a major passageway. All low-let building lined the alley for several kilometers. _Billingsly Brokerage_, was painted on a fresh sign overlooking the door. The building was on a corner lot with a loading dock on the adjacent side.

Without hesitation, Starling kicked a long trousered leg out the BMW and made off toward the business. Reluctantly, and thinking she'd need a distraction, Bond followed. On the corners of the building and strewn in convenient places were video cameras. Coming up along side of one, Bond snapped a picture of the camera. More important, and what one of them would have to find, was the recording device hooked to the cameras.

:

"Hold on, I've got it somewhere," Starling explained to pretty Asian girl working behind the counter. She made a mock show of fishing through her pockets for the claim ticket. "Here it is!" she exclaimed, now that Bond had sauntered into view.

The girl took the claim ticket, and keyed the claim number into a computer.

"Sorry, doesn't seem to be here."

"Not here. Are you sure? Grams was so needing this package. Could you double-check?"

The girl bit the side of her lip.

"Well, I suppose I could check receiving. It might be on the loading dock."

"Super!" Starling chimed.

The girl did a dancer's spin on one heel then disappeared through a beaded curtain.

"Where do we look," whispered Starling.

"You keep the girl busy, I'll follow the wires." Bond immediately, turned and disappeared down a side corridor.

Starling noticed but managed to keep her face out of the interior video cameras. The attendant came back holding only the claim ticket. She handed it back to Starling.

"I'm sorry – no package yet." The girl looked around and noticed Bond was missing.

"Not here? Oh dear, that's simply awful."

The girl was looking irritated now.

"I wonder?" asked Starling. "If I give you this this number, could you ring me when the package arrives."

The girl didn't answer but reached for the card.

"Oh, this number's no good – I'll have to give you another," she stalled. Fumbling for a biro from inside her small bag, Starling killed more time. Finally the girl snatched her own ballpoint from under the counter and snapped it down on the counter.

Starling made a time consuming show of inking out the number on the business card and writing another. She followed the first performance by making a show of blowing on the ink when Bond quietly re-entered the room from the far corridor.

"Hey – you're not allowed in there," the girl protested.

"Terribly sorry," apologized Bond. "Just trying to find the loo."

"We don't have a lavatory for the customers." After a long suspicious look at Starling, the card, and Bond her expression turned hard. "And you'll have to go."

"Do ring me when you can," added Starling.

:

Back in the car, Starling put back on the Ran Bans and then bumped the starter.

"Did you find it?" she asked Bond as the engine responded almost immediately.

"Yes, I did." Bond turned to look at the shop window. The girl was eying them through the blinds. "I don't think she was too happy with us."

"No, not a bit."

"It's a simple video system recording system. Probably keys on motion. Right now it's unplugged so it can't phone home. Q will probably gives us a device to plug in the line. That way we'll find out who it's trying to call."

"You didn't get caught in the cameras?

"Don't think so. Anyway, it'll be dark in a few hour and we can come back then. You have something to wear for the occasion, I take it?"

‡‡‡‡‡

It was after midnight and the bin lorrys could be heard through the city making their beep-beep-beeps while backing up to the rubbish bins. An earlier rain had passed through the city leaving everything wet and shiny black. Streetlights reflected distorted shapes in black pools of standing water.

It had taken all evening for Q's young assistant to finish the gadget they needed to bridge the Ethernet connection on the Video recorder. Now when the recorder phoned home the signal would be routed through the server in MI6 headquarters.

Getting in and out of simple places like these was not always simple. Leaving Starling's flashy BMW in the headquarters car park, a white service van for alarm systems was chosen as the best substitute. They ditched the van just beyond the eyes of the video cameras and proceeded on foot. This wasn't exactly a necessary precaution, but it would be easier to get the van back into traffic parked the way it was.

Also not exactly critical to this assignment was Bond and Starling's decision to dress in cat-burglar black. Starling agreed for once that since this was more or less a training assignment it would be best to prepare for every contingency. But now Bond was suspicious this was a clever subterfuge. Choosing clingy black Lycra with a gray stripe, he wondered if this wasn't just an excuse to exercise the latest fashion. The girl was simply all arse and legs and both were showcased in the shiny black Lycra. Up top, she had on a little jacket that covered her shoulder harness and hid the Glock. She wasn't large breasted, about medium to Bond's eye, so the flared open jacket worked well to balance her figure.

Their 'mission' if you could call it that was likely to be brief and short. It might take a couple of weeks to find out who was behind all this. At that time the perpetrator would likely be pinned down to some rat's nest in the world and this whole thing would be turned over to the nearest field office. Starling and he would likely fly there, brief the local field agents, and then wash their hands of the whole affair. And then what? Would Starling turn out to have a softer underbelly? When the job was over would they fall into each others arms after dinner? Would they slip into bed or just shake hands and wish each other luck? At this point, Bond had no idea, but one look at her derriere in black tights made the thing a pressing question.

A lorry moving in their direction snapped Bond back to business. They both ducked into a shadow until the vehicle was safely past. Ignoring the cameras for now, they snaked around the back of the building. From somewhere inside the Lycra suit, Starling produced a lock-pick and went to work on the door. Within a few anxious minutes she had the door open and they were inside and looking for the business records of _Billingsly Brokerage. _Inside the distinctive smell of cardboard was everywhere. Under the dim light of security lamps, flattened boxes of all sizes were seen scattered in piles.

Quickly Bond went straight away for the Camera DVR while Starling went looking for office records. He found the Ethernet cable still unplugged and inserted the bridging device.

He caught up with his partner examining a half-lite textured glass door labeled 'Office'.

"It's locked," announced Starling. "Now, where did I put that pick?"

Bond was ready to offer his help when she found the pick in a pocket hidden along a seam. Delicately, nimble fingers went to work on the office lock. While holding the tumblers in place with friction and torquing the door knob, the lock suddenly gave way with a snap.

Spending an hour, cross-referencing paper files with a list of customers Bradley had supplied, they took pictures of everything with miniature digital cameras. Using a special thumb drive given to them by Q's assistant, the computer was rebooted without the need of a password or user-name to log in. They made copies of everything that looked worthwhile and then shut everything down.

Bond went out first, looking over the corridor while his partner made one last look over the office. Locking the office door behind her, Starling came out with a sheet of paper in hand.

"What's that?"

"I thought the numbers looked familiar," she said. "Unless I'm mistaken, it's an invoice for our package".

"Is that odd?"

"Yes; they said it hadn't arrived, yet here's the lading invoice."

"So – it arrived after we left?"

"Don't see how – they were closing as we left."

"Does this really matter?" asked Bond.

"Well, if they lied to us about having it, I suppose it does."

"You're sure then?"

"Well, I could be mistaken, but it must be around here somewhere. Receiving is just over _there_," she said, pointing a finger toward the receiving department.

"Do we _really_ have time to shop?" Bond quipped.

"Girls always have time to shop. Besides, we need to be sure, and Bradley may have left us something special."

"Not likely."

Like browsing for discounts, Starling found a long queue of packages with numbers close to her own.

"...28, ...27, ...26... Here it is!" Two feet high and over thee feet long, the package sat there matching the claim number.

"Don't open it," injected Bond, but the three inch wide cell-tape holding the box lid tight had already been slit and the lid pulled open.

"It's already open," retorted Starling, gently prying the lid apart to lay bare the contents. There under old newspapers was something large and obnoxiously pink.

"What the hell is this?" she said.

"Looks like lawn furniture."

"Yeah, Pink Flamingos – four of them," she added.

Bond grabbed one of the birds by the neck and lifted it out of the box.

"Wonder where he got these."

"Out of his garden, I'd say. Look at he dirt here." Bond pointed to the long green metal legs. "Stuck in the ground about a foot, I'd say."

"So this is how Bradley gets rid of his old junk?"

"Bradley always did have a strange sense of humor." Bond dropped the pink bird back in the box.

"Stranger yet is why they sent us away without our package."

"And then opened it."

"They were on to us for some reason."

"It certainly appears so."

The hair began to rise on the back of Bond's neck.

"Maybe we better go. This is getting all too susp..."

There was an audible click – and everything went black.

"Down," ordered Bond, and they both ducked. He could hear Starling's gun sliding out of the holster. There was no sound from his own chamois carrier, but an moment later the safety was pushed off with a faint click. "Listen," he whispered. "Footsteps."

Soft soled footsteps approached the door to the package room. Steady at first, then pausing, whoever it was stopped in the door. With little to no ambient light from outside and the place was almost pitch black. No one could navigate around all the packaging mess in this darkness. Bond moved his head in the direction of Starling's breathing.

"Night vision – infra red," he whispered. Sitting in the darkness for what felt like hours, Bond could hear Starling shift position.

"I see him," she said. Her own night vision must be coming around faster than his, thought Bond.

Moments later a shot came ripping through cardboard and whistled between their heads. A long flame from the gunshot was still visible in the door when Starling moved up from their hiding position, and ripped off two quick shots from the Glock and ducked.

Another shot from the unknown gunman ripped between the pair to shatter glass behind them.

Immediately, and mostly on instinct, Bond and Starling raised together. Two shots from the Glock and three from the Walther filled the small space with thunder. Before the echo diminished, the gunman could be heard to turn and run for it. Stumbling footsteps, crashing into packages and boxes, the attacker was trying to put distance between them.

"Where's the fucking lights?"

"Wait." Starling began digging through the jacket and produced a small torch. Holding the small light beside the gunbarrel, she pointed to the empty door frame. Within moments Bond himself had pulled a torch light from the cargo pockets and both were scanning toward the doorway. Approaching the doorway from opposite sides, there was no sign of the gunman in the adjoining room.

The blood trail began a few paces beyond the door. Violet red rivulets running away from a large splatter in the floor were almost luminescent under bluish white lite from the Led torches.

"Careful," cautioned Bond, knowing from experience that men were most dangerous when wounded. Twice cautioning Starling not to rush, they followed the blood trail's meandering path toward door in the rear of the building. The trail led to the rear door standing wide open and out to the open lot behind. Taking positions on both sides of the doorframe they scoured the alley for the gunman.

A flash then a shot echoed between the buildings and hit the side of the door frame nearest Bond. The flash came from across the back alley and down a bit. Wanting to return fire, but not having the angle, Starling bit her lip anxiously but held back.

Bond returned a quick shot and was angling for another when the rumbling V8 of a black Dodge Charger filled the small alley. Flushed out of hiding, the man made for the Charger. Briefly the interior lights flashed on and the gunman disappeared inside. Now Bond and Starling opened fire. Bond quickly emptied the small clip of the Walther; Starling continued on until the muscle car was out of sight.

Standing there until the sounds of a noisy exhaust were replaced the sounds of the city at midnight, Bond exchanged clips in the Walther, clicked on the safety, and stowed it away. Starling followed Bond's actions and slid the weapon under her jacket.

"Let's find the damned lights and get out of here."

"Do we go back for the Flamingos?"

:

* * *

_**A/N:** A big thanks to everyone for reading, and the favs and follows. Also, much grats for comments from cloud 9123. It was the much needed inspiration to trudge through another chapter. :)_


	4. The Poop Deck

.

**Say you Love Me**

**Chapter 4.**

**The Poop Deck **

"Yes sir. There's no doubt about it."

"No doubt about it? Now wait a minute Bond. Back up and start over from the beginning."

Bond, somewhat perturbed, drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

"Starling and I checked out that mail order brokerage firm. You know – they package items for delivery and pickup."

M nodded, his attention split between Bond and tamping his pipe. "Okay. Why?"

"For information sir. Bradley mailed us a package as an excuse to look the place over."

"Your idea or his?"

"I'd say we both settled on it."

"And you proceeded on it – how?"

"Starling approached the girl behind the counter and asked for the package. When the girl left the counter that left me free to go looking for the security recorder."

By now M had the pipe going strong. He tossed the lighter on his desk and leaned back in his chair.

"Well," continued Bond. "The girl came back and said there was no package. Starling gave her a number to ring and we left."

"What time did you go back?"

"A little after midnight sir. We'd been there about an hour when we found our package the girl denied having. The lights went off a few minutes after that and we had to shoot our way out."

Bond ran his fingers through dark hair was a few grey strands showing.

"It's very suspicious sir," Bond went on. "It looks like we might have been set up."

It was M's turn to pull a face.

"Yes, but by who – and all for a training mission to find a few computer crooks."

"A few computer crooks with ties to Human Trafficking."

"Yes, but it's not that large an operation, this one. In no way big enough to be into MI6. You need to look at this from a different perspective."

"A different perspective?"

"Yes, I'd say it was something you did to tip them off – possibly Starling. She's still got that fresh out of the Academy look about her."

"With all due respect sir, I saw her performance, at least part of it and it wasn't too bad. Sir I have to insist on this."

"Okay Bond, I'll make a formal note of this," M said with frustration showing in his voice. He set the pipe in the ask tray and then leaned away from it. A clear sign the meeting was over.

"Thank you sir."

"Now get with Bradley and find the next link in this chain."

‡‡‡‡‡

_The next link in the chain_, M had said. Hell, it could be anywhere, thought Bond and he didn't particularly trust Bradley to head him in the right direction. Better yet would be be to follow the trail where it started. Between his gun and Starling's they'd put a clip and a half of slugs into the black American roadster. Even at night that would have to show up on the security cameras covering modern London. It would just be a matter of finding them. First, he'd find where Starling was keeping herself. Most of the new promotions to the double O section were scattered about B level and hiding in cubicles.

This brought up a pressing question. If M thought Starling needed training to enter field service, how the hell did she ever manage a first kill? It was a question best addressed over drinks – and maybe after the training was over.

Thirty minutes later and covering most all of B level there was a group of a half-dozen dust-grey cubicles in a corner he hadn't checked. In the absence of windows the corner was well lit with artificial lighting. Peering into the corner cubicle Bond found the target. The pageboy was rolled up in a knot over her head and large black framed glasses gave her that co-ed look. Just from the looks of things one would never imagine the killer underneath. Bond paused in the opening to the cubicle. Starling, no doubt counting the footsteps, put down the report, and spun almost ninety degrees in the chair to see who was behind her.

"Good morning," greeted Bond.

"Didn't think you worked this early."

"What on earth would give you that idea?" Bond replied and looked at the Rolex. "...and it's not that early."

Starling smiled but remained mute. She was wearing a dark grey suit, complete with a short skirt at about mid-thigh and a pale pink button up blouse.

"Was just going over these reports from Bradley."

"Look, this business last night..."

"Have you looked these over?" she asked and waved the report.

"No, not yet. Got something else in mind."

"Something else? M's given us strict direction on this. We're to follow Bradley's leads."

"Ah, to hell with Bradley."

"To hell with Bradley? But M..."

"Look," he injected. "I've got a few ideas I'd like to follow, and I'm a little wary of Bradley's direction after last night."

"Hey, you don't think..."

Bond looked around, obviously uncomfortable with standing at a cubicle.

"Look, can I explain over coffee?" Starling shrugged and the long tan legs jackknifed under her chair straightened to lift her to nearly Bond's height.

"Sure."

Taking the lift to the canteen, they were seated in a relatively private corner, sipping their coffee minutes later.

"Look, experience tells me that the other night was more than just a coincidence. I'm thinking there's something afoul in Bradley's group."

"You're not really serious. Like what?"

"He's a hacker. His group spends their days trying to hack into other systems, and I'd say the hacker is hacked."

"You're saying our MI6 hackers got hacked by that Brokerage lot?"

"No, of course not – by whoever is behind them."

"That's not what M thinks, and he wants us to follow Bradley's lead," she reiterated.

Bond paused, and looked down at his coffee before raising up to address her comment.

"Who's training you? M or me?"

"You are, but I just thought we ought to stay on the line M drew out for us."

"Well, I really don't like that idea at all."

It was Starling's turn to pause.

"That's disregarding M's directions?" she replied. "That somewhat bold in my case, wouldn't you think."

Bond smiled.

"Perhaps, but it's my bad if it goes down sideways."

Starling frowned, lugubriously.

"That's comforting."

"Look, you stay with Bradley, if it'll make you feel any better, and I'll pursue my own plan."

"Oh, so you have a plan. What is it, if you don't mind letting me in?" she asked, sarcastically.

Bond looked relieved that she'd finally asked.

"It's time to make use of the bleeding CCTV networks all over London. I'll get with those bastards in surveillance and see if we can find out what happened to our getaway car."

Starling leaned back in the chair, kicking the long legs out a little further. She slipped the pencil into her hair above the ear, giving off more of the schoolgirl persona.

"Okay – so what are you going to?"

"Follow the car – of course."

"Yes, but they're likely to be a contract hire. They may not be connected to the guys we're after at all."

"Well, somebody hired them, and I like the feel of it. It's a bit like going through the back door."

"Humph, didn't work so well last time," she said and snickered.

‡‡‡‡‡

It took surveillance experts over half a day to track the car through a circuitous route to a garage in north London. By three o'clock Bond was trudging through summer-like heat to find the car. It was still late spring but with high humidity and the temperature over 32 C it felt like summer had already descended. Comfortably dressed in Khaki shorts and a long shirt with open tails and a baseball cap, Bond could be almost mistaken for a holiday tourist. A waistband holster added to the heat and was beginning to feel a little clammy around his midsection. Hopefully an evening breeze would come around soon or he'd find the garage the car disappeared into and call it quits for the day.

He was wondering how Starling was making out. Had she stayed at headquarters staring at a computer screen all day or managed to find a way to get outdoors as he had. If she did, he wondered how she had dressed for the heat. If he could quickly locate the car he might...

A noise in a nearby service alley sounded like the top of a rubbish bin hitting the asphalt. Carefully, Bond worked his way to the next corner and then turned down the service alley. An older vagrant was lifting he lids off the dustbins to browse through the contents. It looked like he'd found something of interest and was fishing through the rubbish. He took one look at Bond and scurried off, leaving his treasure still in the can.

Curious and a little bored, Bond continued down the alley. There were several garage entrances to several warehouse buildings along the alley. The CCTV image was blurry on this part of the city but the car could have ducked off the street and easily turned into this alley. Looking at the concrete entrance to garage doors, Bond spotted a shiny red object laying in front of a door.

The red object turned out to be a part of the plastic housing for the tail-light. There was a bump between the street curb and the concrete entrance and it might have shaken something loose. Starling had likely hit the taillight as the car sped away. His Walther had emptied long before the car turned away from broadside.

Using a new electronic lock pick from Q, Bond averted his own clumsiness and avoided detection at the same time. Within a few moments the device had magically worked the tumblers into the correct position and the latch was beginning to give way with a snap. With no more time than it would take to work a key, Bond had the door unlocked.

The garage was dark and sepulchral as Bond lifted the spring assisted door. As the door began to raise like a curtain, the outline of a car began to take form. It was the black Charger complete with shiny edged holes where the bullets pierced the thin steel and took off paint around the depression. Pausing for a few moments, Bond tucked his shirttail over the handle of the Walther.

The car sat back away from the door of the garage, which was big enough to hold three more. With no light switch near by, Bond paused for a few moments to allow his eyes adjust. Except for a few bullet holes the back of the car looked normal. The driver's side appeared okay, but the passenger glass had exploded from the inside and lay on the floor in a small glistening pile that looked like tiny ice cubes.

Moving slowly toward the missing window the air was thick with the smell of blood. Bits of hair and other red matter lay scattered among the glass. Close enough to look in, the gunman lay slumped forward with what remained of his head resting on the dash. Pulling the LED torch from his pocket, Bond looked deeper into the car. The keys were still in the ignition and nothing else appeared out of place.

By the looks of the wound the passenger and been shot just behind the left temple. The bullet took out most of the right side of the victims head along with the passenger window. The pungent smell of death was strong now. Doing his best to ignore the smell, Bond opened the passenger door and pushed back hard on the gunman's shoulder. The body was cold and stiff; it wouldn't move. Better to drag him out of the car, he thought. Seizing the man's coat sleeve he pulled and tugged until the body fell out of the car sideways. Continuing to drag the body through the glass, the man came to rest on his right side.

Quickly frisking the body, there was no sign of identification or personal belongings. The shooter must have relieved him of his gun. Using a handkerchief from his pocket, he grabbed the keys and yanked them out and quickly pocketed the set. He opened the glove box, bloodied by the man's head. A little light switched on to reveal a brown envelope and some commercial brochures. Bond took them and shoved them under his shirt and into his waistband. He popped the switch to open the boot. Everything was clean and orderly except for a little damage from the bullets. Once last glance around reveled nothing but darkness. Needing a breath of fresh air, Bond got the hell out, closing the door behind him.

:

With a quick pace he left the alley, going straight away back to the street front and his own car. Opening the big brown envelope, he poured the contents into the passenger seat. The black Charger was the property of _Sunset Rentals_. By the look of the brochures it was one of those exotic car rentals. You could rent a flashy Porsche, a bright red Ferrari, or in this case an American muscle car. They probably wouldn't be too happy when they got this one back.

On the way back to his flat, Bond called into Headquarters about finding the car. With any luck, they'd be able to get back to with who rented _Sunset Rental's_ black Charger. In the mean time, he'd ring Starling. Finding the Charger felt like pressing news, and she ought to hear it. Maybe over drinks later.

‡‡‡‡‡

After a hot shower and a second shave for the day, Bond felt like a drink. After a brief ring to Starling, she agreed to meet him and compare notebooks. From the sound of things, she'd also had a productive day. Into a fresh pair of Khaki shorts and a less colorful holiday shirt, Bond pulled the canvas cover off the old Bentley.

The spot for their intended rendezvous was a place called _The Flagship_. It was a themed restaurant and casual watering hole. If you didn't take it seriously and your mood was light, the place could be quite enjoyable. The night was beginning to fall and the breeze blowing over the open top of the Bentley was definitely cooling.

Bond laboriously wheeled the Bentley into the crowded car park. Empty places turned out to be hard to find and this was no place to test the decades old steering mechanism. Finally a spot, and Bond was making his way on foot toward the crowded bar. Parked beside the walkway was Starling's BMW. He wondered if she'd been that lucky or if she arrived early.

Bond took a quick glance over the packed restaurant with no sight of Starling. He was struck with the thought of how the younger generation seemed to have so much more time for leisure. Finally thinking to ask the maître d', she produced a small white card and handed it to Bond with a warm smile.

I'm on the Poop Deck.

– Sam

He thanked the girl and carefully negotiated the _Captain's Quarters_ then cautiously stepped around the _First Mate's Tables_ before making his way outside to the _Poop Deck_. _The Flagship_ was located on a tributary of the Thames, and the _Poop Deck_ was an outside drinking and Dining area farthest from the main body of the building and closest to the water. At the most remote end, and raising four fingers to fashion a timid wave, sat Starling with an uneven grin.

As he approached the table, Starling stood and extended a hand. A clear sign the meeting was to be conducted on a professional level.

"Good evening," she greeted conservatively.

"Glad you could make it – sorry for the short notice."

He took the hand and noticed it was not quite as cold and clammy as the first handshake in M's office. Starling was attired in a nice pair of charcoal grey shorts, just above the knee, short heeled sandals, a cream polo, and of course bronzed athletic legs that ran on forever. Even though her greeting was conservative and professional, the night air mixed with the smell of water and a trace of perfume argued the matter convincingly.

"So how'd your day go?" she began.

"Pretty good, found the car actually."

"Really! Good work. Anything else?"

"Yes, and our gunman."

"Was he..."

"Yes, quite. Looks like he was done in by the driver. The car was a rental – property of _Sunset Rentals_ – a real mess now."

Starling looked past Bond and raised an arm.

"Looks like you need a drink," she said, looking for the waiter.

"Indeed I do. Attractive – a mind reader – and a good shot – what other skills you have?"

She ignored the catty comment and kept her eyes on the waiter.

"Good drinks here but the service sucks. WAITER," she said, catching his eye. The young man scurried up ruefully.

"Help you miss?"

She pointed at Bond.

"Make it a vodka martini," he said. "You need another?" Starling shook her head.

"Anything else about the car?" she asked.

"Got the rental transaction traced back to a..."

"Let me guess," interrupted Starling. "Tangent industries."

For the first time, Bond appeared a little off – not quite his cocky self.

"So you found that out, how?"

"We ran the records on _Billingsly Brokerage_ and _Tangent Industries_ showed up in more than one suspicious transaction. The rental car was just part of a list of things."

Reflecting at the gunmetal color of the Thames tributary, there was no snappy answer from Bond on this one. He nodded in concession.

"Well, there's always more than one way to skin a cat. You must have been behind a computer all day."

"Yes, I was following orders while you were having your adventure."

Clearly, the evening was not going as Bond had hoped. Starling had uncovered as much as he had, if not more. Nevertheless, he was in no mood to take her cheeky comments. Conveniently, the waiter interrupted the tense moment with Bond's drink. Creating more of a fuss than necessary, the young man asked a few annoying questions and then, when satisfied he'd bothered them enough, smiled and scampered off.

"Look," returned Bond. "I know my methods may be a little old fashioned, but I feel it's more important to be out in the field than being cooped up behind a computer screen all day."

"Have you ever been behind a computer screen all day?"

"No, and I don't intend to. Something tells me – and I'm not always sure what – that it's more important to see the faces, dead or alive, smell the sweat, the blood, or the sickly odor of death. It just seems more real that way. It's a visual reminder of what we face every day."

Starling appeared irked. "But M..." she began.

Bond raised his hand to stop her.

"M has his orders and most the time, I go along with his suggestions – and sometimes I don't. Let me remind you that M also said it's up to me to clear you for field duty. So if you want to get away from me anytime soon, you might just keep that in mind."

Starling was clearly bothered by the last but wasn't speaking.

"If there's nothing else on that, I'd like to hear what else you found on _Tangent Industries_ – is there anything else?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"I need another drink."

:

* * *

Much Thanks for the comments from rlrct and to all those read, followed, or faved – again thanks...

G.S.


	5. Tangent Industries

**:**

**Say you Love Me**

**Chapter 5.**

**Tangent Industries**

As much as he was beginning to distrust the man, Bradley's reports clearly showed _Tangent Industries_ involved in a number of suspicious activities. Bond had spent most of the morning looking through reports and computer tidbits, emails and datums, until he thought his head was about to explode. How on earth did people do this for a living?

If he only had Mary Goodnight to help; she had been promoted out of the office and her replacement turned out to be a new desktop computer. Bond almost turned in his resignation after that one. M explained it was a way, however desperate, for the department to cut back on overhead costs.

Mary Goodnight or no, Bond would have to assemble some kind of report to M. _Tangent Industries_ looked like it was worth going after. The company's diversified product lines included labor intensive items such as wicker furniture, baskets, handcrafted textile products, and those tacky high texture oil painting, and on and on. Their profile screamed small margins demanding cheap labor, where free would be better. It could be a legitimate business, but more and more it looked like a front for trafficking.

Headquartered in Brasilia, _Tangent's_ CEOs preferred offices in Rio. It was another checked box against them. Brazil was an emerging nation and BRICS member, but number two on the list of nations most guilty of human trafficking. The more he looked at it, the fatter the target appeared to be – if only he could fashion the report to persuade M to arrive at the same conclusion. This could be trouble with his two-fingered typing skills. It might take days to get it out.

Hunkered over the computer keyboard lugubriously, he heard a faint rap on the door frame and a wisp of air blow past him. With a heavy thud, a thickly bound report fell on his desk. He followed the report's trail upward to see Starling standing there wearing a curt smile.

"Thought you could use some help."

"Yeah... for what?" He replied.

"For the report we discussed – to convince M to go after _Tangent Industries_."

Bond nodded and picked up the report. "Have a seat."

Starling grabbed the only spare chair in Bond's office as he began reading and thumbing through the contents. The report appeared to be complete and thorough. It outlined the original messaging methods of steganography that led them to _Billingsly Brokerage._ Details from their business records and trace information from Ethernet traffic clearly pointed to _Tangent Industries_, just as Bond had struggled to do. Everything was there: the same labor profile Bond had found, plus the CEO, COO, and CFO were thrown in for good measure. And finally, she had sketched together a plan for her and Bond to approach the company.

In the plan, they were to pose as business partners interested in _Tangents's_ product line – official and unofficial. Bond examined this section in detail.

"Well, I'm impressed," he said and slapped the report back down on his desk.

"Do you think M will go for it?"

Bond shook his head. "Don't know – I mean it's a good job, the report. But I don't know if M thinks the operation is big enough to fly us down there."

Bond shrugged consolingly. In secret, he thought M would go for the plan; he just hated to see Starling gloat over it. The only thing that might kill the deal was M's thought of him and Starling killing time on a Brazilian beach at the company's expense.

It was Starling's turn to frown lugubriously. Now Bond was really keen on seeing her in a Brazilian bikini. He picked up the report again and pretended to study the cover.

"...Don't think we've much of a field office down there. He just might go for it."

‡‡‡‡‡

'Boarding Flight 591 to Buenos Aires.' came a staticky announcement from an adjoining gate. Bond watched in envy as a line of passengers filed past the ticket attendant and disappear into the tunnel.

Arriving at Heathrow early, so Starling and he could go through special security, Bond was now growing restless. To get an overall view of the gating area, Starling sat a few rows behind. Always at work, she appeared to be pure business. M's last minute modification to her plan seemed to have put her in a mood.

Rejecting her plan to be co-owners in an imaginary business, M strongly suggested she would be best posed as Bond's secretary instead. Posing as a secretary, would require less coordination required between them, making rehearsal an easier job. But that put Starling into the old fashioned role of the subordinate and she thought the assignment dull and less challenging. She'd been detached and monosyllabic all morning. If this continued the whole trip would turn out to be a major bore. Not at all the way Bond had hoped to end their first assignment.

Also nixed were their plans to stay in Rio and visit the offices there. The corporate chiefs were more than happy to meet them in Rio but the production facilities were in the capitol city of Brasilia. M had insisted that they inspect production. The city beaches in Rio were now crowded and littered but Bond had fond memories of his visits there from his early days in the service.

Finally, the intercom for their own boarding gate began to crackle with life. A slender brunette with a tiny blue airlines cap atop her head announced boarding for rows 42 through 25. Two more announcements and he was filing in behind Starling.

Starling was almost incognito behind oversized Ray Ban's. They were partially obscured by the fringe of her pageboy. Attired in soft cotton Khakis with a loose cardigan, he wondered where she hid the Glock in that outfit. It was customary if not edict that agents always keep their weapons on their person when traveling through a crowd. Once they were securely on board she'd be able to slip the weapon into the large carry-on she had slung over her shoulder.

Also required of service members was seating in business class to take advantage of the more spacious layout. It simply wouldn't do to have two double O's crammed into crowded coach seating. They would simply be too easy a target if an unknown assassin followed them on board.

"Aisle or window?" he asked Starling.

"We'll take turns," she fired back and took the window. "... and I'll need to piss later."

After navigating a long queue they were rolling out and airborne a few moments later. It was a clear sunny day. It should have been good for flying but upper air had heated unevenly to render bumpy conditions. Still taciturn, Starling had had enough of the window scenery and removed the sunglasses. Extracting the oversized report from the oversized carry-on, she thumbed through the dogeared sections and past the big red markups from M. She began to read in silence.

A thought hit him: she _was_ too tall and commanded too much presence for a secretary. And damn if he intended to go to Brazil and back with a sulking woman.

"Damn; you still pissed about this?"

She attempted to look surprised. "Pissed? What the hell are you talking about?"

"Look – we'll go along with your original plan. You talk me through it, so we can coordinate."

"What the hell are you talking about? You know what M said."

"The hell with what M said."

She smiled coyly, as if pleased but a little unsure of this course of action.

"Okay," she relented. "...it'll go like this..."

And she began to read, pausing to fill in where the report didn't go. Bond listened to her carefully but quickly grew bored. Her reading voice was different than her speaking voice – and he couldn't quite make out why that was. Reading, her voice was a little more nasal. Her normal speaking voice was a little more throaty. Either way, it had a mesmerizing effect, her voice, and he was reminded of another woman from long ago that spoke this way.

Honey Ryder... yes, it was Honey Ryder that he was reminded of. She had that same deep weathered voice. That was it – that was whom she reminded him of. It had been so many years since their encounter on Dr. No's island. He had kept in touch for a time after that, but in this business it was so difficult to keep in touch with anyone and the the letters finally stopped.

In the seat next to him, Starling's constant droning came to an abrupt end and he woke from the dream.

"What?" he asked, surprised to hear her stop.

"Let's change seats," she said, reaching for the carry-on bag. "...and I've got to get out of this holster and powder my nose."

‡‡‡‡‡

Sitting next to the window, Bond woke as the first morning light began to wash over Brazil. The cabin was beginning to bustle as the refreshment carts were working their way down the aisle. The stewardess' were doing their best to be quiet, but the smell of coffee was wafting toward them. Now, on the leeward side from the sun, more window shades were being pulled up to let in the light.

Starling, nestled under an airlines sized blanket, was still asleep, or appeared to be. The perfect pageboy was a little ruffled and somewhat deformed by the elastic band for her eye mask. Laying there and looking innocent, it took a stretch of imagination to see the killer underneath the blanket. He needed a piss but hated to wake her. She'd never be that innocent again.

It was two cups of coffee and a small breakfast later when the big Boeing turned on final for Brasília International. Starling was back at the window seat and looking all fresher. The plane came in low to stay under the overcast skies. The cityscape was a mosaic of ultra modern office buildings and shanty sized tenements.

Customs was way understaffed. A mile long line of morning tourists were waiting to enter the country. Bond spotted someone that looked like staff going for coffee and motioned him over. He flashed his credentials wallet and showed him the butt of the Walther when he put the wallet back in his coat pocket.

The man smiled and disappeared. He returned moments later with two uniformed policemen who escorted them into an empty office. Two phone calls and a few minutes later, they were cleared and free to go. Moneypenny had phoned ahead with arrangements to the hotel. Neither Bond or Starling had any idea what to expect and were not impressed when an aging and faded black Mercedes pulled up to the curb. With their spirits at a low point things got better quick. The creaking Mercedes pulled up to the Breisis De Largo, a brand new five star hotel with a swimming pool the size of an amusement park. On top of that, offshore breezes were clearing the skies of the earlier clouds.

With plans to meet the chaps at the Brazilian field office over dinner they would be able to rest up by the pool. The meeting with Tangent representatives would not be until the following morning. Bond was hoping he might get to see Starling in a bikini after all.

It wasn't a bikini but a black one-piece. Shown to their rooms and with time to shower and refresh, they met later for sandwiches by the pool. Business to the very last, Starling insisted on going over plans one more time.

They would be co-owners of a fledgeling business. It was an arts and crafts spinoff from a popular American business of the same type. With just five stores to get started, this would minimize the need for brochures, websites, and corporate phone numbers, which could blow their cover in minutes.

Occasionally looking his way through the over-sized Ran Bans, Starling droned on continuously for an hour or more. Was there anything to get her mind off business?

"Time for a swim," he announced.

For a moment she looked confused. "Oh... alright."

They settled the bill with the waiter then grabbed their drinks and several fluffy white terrycloth towels. They circumnavigated the lake sized pool to a spot of Bond's liking.

"This'll do!" he exclaimed at last and threw the towel onto a chair. He slipped out of his shirt and watched Starling slip out of the lace peignoir and peel down to the shiny black swimwear. He immediately went for the water; Starling watched on while sunning in the chair.

Swimming for five minutes, Bond felt out of shape and couldn't help but feel self-conscious with the bit of belly he'd added in the last few years. At least it was tanned, he thought. Returning to the chair, it was Starling's time to get up. She was lean and muscular. The slick black suit looked glued to her skin. Easily matching Bond's five minutes and a little more, she pulled up at last and threw her elbows over the side of the pool.

"When are we meeting those chaps from the section office?"

"About seven I think – but we might should arrive a little early."

"Yeah – why's that."

"I'd like to see them at work. We can get a better feel for their abilities there. This lot is all new, you see."

Starling didn't comment but pulled herself out of the pool. In the black suit, now glistening and wet, she looked like a Kentucky Derby winner. Her figure wasn't overly curvacious, but firm, solid, and athletic. The crutch of her suit revealed a slight camel-toe. He wondered if she wore any hair there, or if it was cleanly shorn, like most of the younger girls today. She quickly went for a towel and the sight was gone.

"You feel they're up to the job, then?"

"We'll know by tonight – or maybe after we meet with Tangent tomorrow."

Starling was suddenly overcome with a look of concern.

"Is there anything you need to tell me? Instructions, I mean."

"Yes, there is..."

"Well," she said, toweling the pageboy. "what is it?"

"Order drinks."

‡‡‡‡‡

The next morning was even more beautiful than the first. There had been no warm overhanging clouds to be moved away. The air was cool and clear and not at all what one would expect for central Brazil in this time of year. London's spring meant Brazil's early fall and already the days were beginning to cool.

Seated outside for breakfast, Bond was taking his first cup of coffee under an umbrella of shade from a potted ornamental tree. He looked up to see the Maitre d' with Starling in tow. Starling was dressed as the business conservative in a midnight blue business suit with a knee length hem. He wondered if she could still manage the spinning back kick in that outfit. The jacket was cut a little too full in the bust. No doubt, making more room to conceal the Glock.

They exchanged 'Good mornings'. The Maitre d' helped Starling with the chair and Bond almost laughed but remembered it was an important part of ruse they were playing. Awkwardly, the man did the best he could and disappeared.

"Sleep well?" Bond began on a purposeful but casual note.

Starling glared back. "So what did you think of our field office?"

Bond shook his head. "I'm not sure. They're pretty green, that lot." In truth, he'd been very disappointed. He was hoping to turn this whole matter over to field agents and be back in London with new business. But now, he didn't know. Between Q branch and Bradley's cryptologists they should be able to dig up enough without a strong section office. This was the new way. The new world of computers at work. But Bond didn't hold with the new ways. At least not all of them. Nothing replaced 'boots on the ground' in his mind. Using either method, he didn't want to spend any more time in Brazil than he had too.

"Afraid we'll have to wait to answer that question properly."

"You're saying we could be in Brazil a while?"

"Hell, I hope not," he replied and motioned for the waiter.

:

As two business executives would do, they had the hotel call them a car. This time it was a shiny new Infinity. Tangent Industries was on the far side of the industrial district and twenty minutes from their hotel in morning traffic. Starling fidgeted with her hem nervously. Bond wanted to put his hand over hers to assuage her nerves but didn't dare.

Escorted through large glass door that opened with a hydraulic assist, the two of them entered Tangent Industries and preceded to the concierge. Tangent's corporate offices were on the eighth and top floor. There they were greeted by a friendly but junior officer who escorted them to a conference room where the chief financial officer and chief planner were seated and waiting.

After the proper amount of time for customary greetings, Starling went to work. She left both men with the firm impression she was man enough for the job. He should be scolded for the thought, he thought. But she never missed a beat. She outlined perfectly the need for their fledgeling low-margin business to get off to a good start with cheap labor. She stressed this constantly, with the Tangent executives doing everything in their power to allay her fears.

They had a brief lunch from an adjoining canteen that serviced to the complex. The company executives insisted on a round of drinks. Perhaps to make them less wary? In any account, Starling ordered a weak wine and Bond a single martini. Shortly after, they took a car to tour the production facilities.

Again, Starling put on the perfect show, pretending to believe the production facility was large enough for the job. Clearly she and Bond both knew it wasn't. When they inquired about production facility number two, the two company officials made up some story about the facility being off-line. According to their story the facility would be down for a few days to add some modernizing features. Starling and Bond pretended to buy the story, but the word from the section office said they were experiencing serious labor disputes. Rumors of a third production facility - probably one staffed with trafficked employees - was never acknowledged.

After handshaking and encouragement from both sides, agreements were reached by the end of the day. Starling promised the Tangent executives that they could consider the day a success. Bond felt both sides had done a wonderful job bullshitting the other.

"Do you think they were suspicious?" she asked later during the drive back.

"No – not at all," came Bond's quick reply.

Over dinner that evening Bond announced he felt comfortable turning the whole thing over to the field office. With their efforts coupled with Q branch and Bradley's cryptologists the link to the traffickers should be easily resolved. They celebrated with a couple of drinks before calling it a night. Warmer but with a professional reserve Bond detested, Starling smiled, shook hands, and said goodnight. Bond watched her scurry off to her room like a good little girl.

Bond lingered over a another martini by the pool and sourly contemplated his retirement.

:

On the following morning it was Bond's turn to be in a mood. As far as he was concerned, Brazil was behind them both. His future in the training department was weighing heavily on his mind but in no way was he the least bit concerned with Tangent Industries. They had bought it 'hook, line and sinker' he thought.

Waiting in front of the hotel, the same dull black Mercedes they'd used at the airport came pulling up. He looked behind him to see Starling pulling her luggage towards the curb. There was a older Japanese couple and a young pair that might be newlyweds also waiting for a car. The driver jumped out, recognized Bond, and opened the boot for their luggage. Bond started for the car when Starling grabbed his arm. She had a sickly embarrassed look on her face.

"What the hell?" snapped Bond.

She looked at him with a pleading face but he wouldn't budge from the demanding demeanor.

Knowing, she'd have to explain, she lent over to speak in his ear.

"I've got to get back to the room for a moment – it's a female thing – can you watch my bag?"

Bond was furious but nodded. Starling, clutching her carry-on, disappeared through the doors of the hotel foyer.

"You're welcome to the car," he said and motioned to the two couples. They talked it over between them and the older couple decided they could wait but the young lovers were late for a flight. Now irritated by the wait, the driver grabbed up their bags. Bouncing with joy and their good luck, the young couple jumped into the car laughing.

Now Bond was simmering. This was to be his replacement. Why the hell didn't women want to stay at home he wondered. Knowing they might both miss their flight because of Starling's moon cycle he cursed silently.

Musing in anger, he watched the car pull away from the long drive to enter the street. He snapped around to see if Starling was on her way when he was slapped in the back with a wave of hot air. He felt the blast of hot air and heard the explosion at the same time. Bond was thrown from the curb and slammed flat on his face. Glass from the hotel windows exploded and fell to the pavement in large and small pieces. Now raining black chunks; bits and pieces of the car and it's occupants fell on the pavement at their feet a few moments later.

Shielding his eyes with his hands, Bond glanced through his fingers to see the huge orange ball of fire burn down to blue, exposing what was left of the car and it's passengers.

:

* * *

A/N: Whew, thought I'd never get this one out. Thanks to all that read, and much grats for the comments from cloud 9123.

Concerning the Blower Bentley, it was in several of the earlier novels and in one film: From Russia with Love. Driven in Bond's earlier days and affectionately kept restored, I like to think Bond occasionally gets the old girl out. Granted, it's not exactly what comes to mind in the view of recent. films. :)


	6. A Schism of the Mind

:

**Say You Love Me**

**Chapter 6.**

**A Schism of the Mind**

Experiencing a dichotomy of shock and elation, Bond took a few precious moments to process what had just happened. His ears were ringing a note in high C. Small flakes of black falling matter like burnt paper were still raining down surreally.

Not witnessing the event first hand, Starling heard and felt the explosion as she approached the double front doors. Realizing the threat might not be over, she reached inside the jacket and drew the Glock. There could be others. Others to witness the event and finish the job in case the first attempt failed.

"James," she said. Bond looked back with glazed over vision. "We have to get off the street."

Dusting debris from his clothes, Bond started up sluggishly. With one eye on Bond and another on the street, Starling spotted a man heading their way. His reason for being there and his function was hard to discern. He continued on without caution. She quickly checked the other direction with a glance and before leveling the Deutsch-Wagram firearm.

"DOWN," she ordered, but the man continued. About this time all hell was breaking loose inside the hotel. Now Bond was up and regaining his senses.

Starling fired a warning shot beside the man's right foot. Now he decided to take the woman seriously. People were pouring into the scene from every crack and crevice. The man got down on his knees with his hands up. Bond had the Walther out of his waistband and quickly trained the gun on Starling's suspect.

"You okay or do we need to get inside?"

"Okay."

"Then bust him in the head if he moves," Starling said and stepped around behind the kneeling figure. She made room for the Glock in the waistband above her ass. With both hands free, she frisked the man for identification. She froze when her hand felt under the man's armpit.

"He's got a gun." Starling stepped back and pulled the Glock again. She put the barrel to the back of the man's head.

"Toss the gun out first. Slowly... and follow that with identification."

The man rolled his palms up. "Sem falar Inglês."

"A ARMA - ATIRE A ARMA," barked Bond with the Walther narrowing real estate between the end of the barrel and the Man's forehead. With fingers beginning to tremble the man slowly extracted a chrome 45 automatic and laid it gently on the ground. Bond kicked the gun out of reach.

"Identificação - Mostrar Identificação," demanded Bond. The man reached into his coat pocket opposite from the side he pulled the gun. He extracted a worn leather wallet and stretched his arm out toward Bond.

"Drop it – cair a carteira."

The man dropped the wallet to the ground. Again Bond used his foot to move the wallet. From a better distance he picked it up and riffled through the contents. He stopped on a card. He looked at the man and then Starling.

"It says here he's special police. Detective Alberto Fernao."

"So what do we do now?" asks Starling.

"Their detectives and special police speak English. They all do," he answered Starling and then turned to the man.

"So quit the game detective Fernao. Who are you and why are you here?"

The man stalled mutely.

"Answer my questions or we'll shoot you," Bond flashed angrily. "There's been three killed already – one more won't matter."

"Just police business," he replied at length.

"What kind of police business and what do you know about this?" he said and pointed to the smoking remains out in the street.

"No more than you," he said, shaking his head.

"Then why were you here?" insisted Bond.

"To check on you two. To make sure you got the hell away safely."

Bond laughed.

"You mean just get away."

"Whatever," the man said sourly. "Now can I get up?"

"Whose your boss?"

"What?"

"Seu chefe – your boss – who is he?"

"Haroldo... Henrique Horoldo."

Bond reached for a cell phone when two marked cars rolled up. Four uniformed police poured out of the two cars. They were taking quite an interest in detective Fernao. One officer was obviously in charge. He approached Bond quickly without taking his eye off the Walther.

"Can you vouch for this man?" began Bond.

The officer nodded. "Fernao."

Bond instructed the detective up. He and Starling harnessed their weapons a bit sheepishly.

"Sorry about that," began Bond. "You should have replied in English. And we're a little cross after someone tries to kill us."

"I speak Portuguese in my own country sir – and this is the work of terrorist – we have them too you know."

"This was not the work of terrorist – this little show was for us."

"Then you should leave Brazil sir."

"We intend to."

‡‡‡‡‡

The little six cylinder struggled back and forth up the zig-zagging roads toward Emanuel's mountain top home. By a personal edict from M, there would be no more public transportation on this trip, Bond and Starling had arrived in Rio by means of a private plane and would connect back to London on a company jet the next morning.

Leaving the hot humid weather far below, they crunched along gravel roads near the top of the mountain. The light air made Emanuel's car struggle. At opportune points along their path, the heavy mountains foliage would break open to reveal the city beach scenes a thousand and a half feet below.

Rather jovial now, Bond accompanied Emanuel in the front seat while Starling sat mute with part of their luggage in the back.

"We're almost here," said Emanuel.

"Looks lovely," replied Bond, taking in Emanuel's Hacienda sized estate.

"It's been in my family for many years."

They pulled off the long gravel road and onto a fine aggregate stone entrance. Stopping under an umbrella of indigenous vegetation, Emanuel jumped out to assist with the luggage.

"Please, Mister Bond you and Miss Starling take a few moments to enjoy the mountain air while I get things ready inside."

"Thanks Emanuel – we will."

Popping open the boot, Emanuel grabbed two bags and scurried off inside. Bond and Starling, frozen in awe, were treated to a sight of vegetation that would rival Kew Gardens.

Bond finally turned to Starling. "Damned impressive."

Starling nodded but didn't comment.

"You look a little off," he added.

"No, just tired, and I was looking forward to being home in my own flat tonight."

"We'll have to make the best of it."

"Oh of course. It's lovely."

"Well, it's been a full day. I need a shower and a drink," lamented Bond.

"Ditto."

:

As a spur-of-the-moment host Emanuel was unmatched. After a hot shower and a fresh change they all settled on the patio for refreshments. With her mood recovered, Starling had changed into casual at last. Low heeled sandals, and Khaki shorts showcased her well formed pins. Snipping a flower from it's trellis nest, Emanuel made a gift of it to Starling.

"It's a Cattleya labiata," he said, "or what we commonly call the Corsage Orchid – the flower of Brazil."

"It's lovely." Starling took the flower and spun it by the stem. It was obvious she didn't know what to do with it. As if struck by an epiphany, she put the flower in her hair above her ear. The delicate color of the flower matched near perfectly the pink polo she wore.

Bond chuckled softly. He hated to laugh but the sight of such a be-flowered killer was a bit jocose. He stuffed the rim of the dry Martini to his lips and successfully extinguish the impulse to laugh out loud.

"You're too kind Emanuel – sorry we turned out to be such a bother."

"No bother Mister Bond – no bother at all. Sorry that your trip to our country turned out so bad. I hope this hasn't soured your opinion of Brazil."

"Not at all – Rio was a frequent port of call years ago and I've come to know and appreciate it's qualities."

"Good – good."

"If we weren't a bit pressed for time I'd like to stay longer," Bond went on.

"You should call your M then – tell him you need more time."

Bond laughed. "I wish we could. But the game's afoot. Whoever is following is likely using the internet."

"It's a new world – is it not?"

"For me it is – more suitable for agent Starling I think," said Bond and looked toward his accomplice. Starling smiled but didn't comment. She was fiddling with her mobile phone and sipping on one of those tropical fruit drinks with a little umbrella.

Like Bond, Starling was a cold killer. She wouldn't be in the same branch of the service otherwise. Still, looking at the long legs crossed in front of him, and coupled with the effects of the dry martini, Bond's mind was trying to play tricks on him. He did his best to cull the thought and wondered about her first kill instead. He'd wanted to ask her about it, but questions like that were considered off limits. The subject might be further complicated if she had used a sexual diversion to pull it off. She'd surely be reluctant to speak of it. Bond visualized her long legs wrapped around her victim and imagined several ways she may have pulled it off.

Snapping out of the dream, Bond took notice of a side door opening and a pretty young female with a huge tray of food. Setting up an impromptu table in the yard, Emanuel had fashioned a small banquet for the evening. He sat Bond and Starling facing a large cutout in the garden vegetation with a wonderful view of Sugarloaf mountain and part of the Copacabana beaches.

Perched atop their heaven-like hideaway, looking at the city beach miles away through layers of humidity and smog provided an insular feeling of the relief from the endless waves of corruption below. Just the thing after one was nearly blown to a million pieces.

‡‡‡‡‡

Saying goodbye to Emanuel, Starling and Bond boarded a private business jet for London. Emanuel would pick up the case against Tangent Industries from the local office in Rio. It was a hairy mess now. They were being tracked – and there was no question about it. From now on out it would be new names and identities for Bond and Starling.

Someone wanted them dead. Bond knew it was probably him they wanted. Starling would be a kind of bonus – like buy one get one free. It was likely an old enemy. Some old enemies from SPECTRE perhaps. It didn't seem likely they'd be connected to this trafficking racket but one never knew in this business. Money illegally obtained was considered just as sweet no matter the source.

In any case this whole thing had blown up in their faces. It would be damned dangerous and no place for Starling to get her feet wet. As soon as they arrived back at the office he'd have a word with M to get her placed somewhere else. M might not agree but he'd ask all the same.

At altitude, Bond signaled the stewardess for cocktails. As if clairvoyant, the pilot dispensed with the seat belt light at the same time. It was a large Boeing business jet and damned well equipped. With minimal seating for a few lucky passengers, the interior was extravagantly decorated like a sports bar. Several large video monitors played live and recorded sporting events simultaneously. A full sized bar and an eager barman were also at their disposal. Needing no one to twist his arm, Bond bellied up to the bar.

The All Blacks were playing France on the center screen. That was good enough, he thought. To begin with, he couldn't understand why sports bars needed so many screens. He also didn't know why there were so many sports bars, but they had totally replaced the older and less accepted theme of just being a bar. Themed pubs and sports bars were all the rage but Bond cared little for them. Either way, they were more popular than ever in the UK and all the rage in America.

Older pubs just reflected drinking, which was bad for your health. Sports bars pulled in a healthier clientele Bond reasoned, and gave alcohol a better rap. With or without pretending to be a sportsman, Bond knew how to enjoy a good drink without feeling of guilt.

"Help you sir?"

"Scotch?"

"Of course sir. What do you fancy?"

"Ardbeg – Uigeadail?"

The barkeep looked impressed that anyone could correctly assemble the words. He smiled but shook his head."

"I'm afraid not sir."

"How about Laphroaig?"

"We have that. Ten year or Quarter Cask?"

"Quarter Cask then, and make it a double."

The barman smiled and reached for a dark green bottle with the white label; he poured a generous double over ice. Starling was still playing with her phone and was making no attempt to get up and join the party. Like most of her generation, she seemed tethered to some personal digital device. Could she really be doing anything constructive or was the phone simply a little closet she could hide in to shut out the world when needed?

Since leaving Brazil she appeared to have fallen into another bout of melancholy. Things had changed on this case and Starling had sensed it out. Had she also divined Bond would recommend that she be released from this assignment?

‡‡‡‡‡

M's office was particularly stuffy on this morning. Every so often the cleaners would give it a going over with deodorizers and disinfectants, only to combine the smell of old pipe smoke with something it was never intended to be mixed with. Whenever this happened the old man's mood seemed to suffer as well.

"Have a seat 007."

"Thanks you sir."

"So... tell me what the hell went down in Brazil."

"I'm afraid there's not much to tell sir. The appointment with Tangent Industry representatives went fairly well I thought. They're obviously hiding their real production capabilities – no doubt staffed with illegals," Bond replied and began to flinch slightly. M listened in earnest and nodded patiently as Bond went into details of the visit.

"Well," he continued. "The car that picked us up in the airport – and old Mercedes – apparently someone fingered it for our return ride. We just missed it and we're lucky to be here."

"And how was that exactly – just missed it?"

"Agent Starling needed to go back in the hotel – forgot something I suppose. Well... we lost the ride. Thank God," he said and chuckled.

"Yes, I think you should. So what's going on here Bond?"

So here was the big enchilada – the big question.

"We're being tracked sir. I wouldn't go so far as to say hunted – not yet – but it's damned close."

"Any ideas on who?"

"Maybe SPECTRE – someone from the past we thought we eliminated but didn't. Someone who's still pissed off."

"SPECTRE was a long time ago 007. Something tells me we should look elsewhere."

"I agree – but who else would go this far – and for what? To avoid a minor trafficking investigation."

"You've said it yourself – you were tracked through the internet. That makes it easier Bond. Now Bradley can help us, and he's all we've got. We'll have to pull him in on this."

Bond grimaced.

"That's very difficult sir. It may have been Bradley that left the back door open to begin with."

"Perhaps, but there's some things going on you need to know. I want to schedule a meeting with you and Starling tomorrow. I'll bring Bradley and we'll clear the air on this matter."

Bond balked. "That's fine sir. But it leads to another question."

M's vision narrowed. No doubt his antenna had picked something out of the air. Immediately he reached for the pipe and fumbled with the lighter. After a few quick draws he placed it back in the stand. The smoke was pulled toward a small lamp and then chimneyed through the shade before disappearing. Now M was ready to listen.

"Question? Well... let's have it."

"It's about agent Starling sir. It would be a stretch now to think of this case as a training mission. If it is SPECTRE – I mean, what's the use in getting her involved in something like that. And all because I pissed someone off years ago? She'll make a good field agent. I'm sure something more suitable will come along soon.

It was M's turn to grimace.

"So when the going gets tough," he began. "...what are we training her to do – quit and find another assignment?"

"That's not at all what I meant."

"You didn't? Well, either way Bond, we all have to take what the enemy dishes out – we all have to take our chances."

"Things could get rough on this one. I would hate for agent Starling's first assignment to be her last."

"Would you?" he asked and sneered. "This is off the record Bond, but it's something that might help. Agent Starling comes from a tough line of old birds. Her grandmother was SOE – survived the war in some tough scrapes. Her mother was no slouch either. So... my recommendations still hold. I'd like 009 to stay on this assignment until completion. Besides, the world we work in is changing. Your methods, albeit as good as they were, are somewhat dated. Starling has received modern training that might come in handy on this job. I hope that what I've said here will make it a difference – so lighten up 007."

"Well... if you insist sir."

"I'm afraid I do. So, I'll have Bradley send some reports out for the two of you. It'll help prepare you for the meeting tomorrow... and don't be late."

"Wouldn't dare sir."

"Good – now get the hell out."

.

* * *

A/N: A big thanks for reading. This chapter, what I would call a tweener, was a tough one to get out. It seems that when you have to really dig - to get the chapter to flow - they often turn out better. It's the 'easy ones' that fall flat. :)


	7. Film Speed and F Numbers

:

****Say You Love Me** **

**Chapter 7.**

**Film Speed and F Numbers**

Taking the lift down to B level, Bond sucked in a lungful of air just as the two copper-clad doors pulled open with a hydraulic hiss. Damn M on this one – it just wasn't right – no matter how good the girl's background or pedigree. No one needed to go fucking around with SPECTRE on their first assignment.

He didn't know why he didn't notice it the first time, but there was no carpet on B level, and the nails on his leather heels made a racket that carried through the whole floor. Finally spotted was the little aura of light from an overhead lamp that haloed Starling's cubicle.

"Good morning," he managed. Again, Starling was laboring on a report but didn't need to look up to know it was Bond. This morning Starling had the pageboy gathered with a clip behind her neck. This made the fringe appear to wrap around more than normal. Tiny gold earrings adorned the killer.

"Thought it was you – what's up?" Being so easily recognized was not a good thing. Bond was probably the last double O's not wearing modern soft soled shoes.

"It's Bradley. Apparently M thinks he has something we need to hear."

Slowly, her eyes rose off the report as she turned her head slowly to face him.

"Oh yeah, Bradley. Almost forgot."

"You knew?"

She nodded again. "Talked to M."

Now Bond's curiosity was peaked. He wondered what M had told her.

"About the mission," he probed clumsily.

"Of course," she said. "...and us."

"Us?"

"There's something you should know – I requested off this assignment but M wouldn't hear of it."

"You did?" Bond asked, not able to contain his surprise. "Something to do with me I suppose."

"It's nothing personal," she pleaded.

"What the hell is it then?" he asked, now fully aware the table had been turned.

Starling spun around in the chair. Long legs in a short skirt came around with it.

"You're a relic Bond. I'm not so sure you're up to working with women. You seem a little uncomfortable around me."

Bond shrugged again. "You're right. I told you I'd never worked with women. But does it really matter? This could be a very dangerous assignment. If SPECTRE _is_ involved it's really nowhere for anyone, man or woman, to get started."

"This is not the cold war Bond. SPECTRE is probably a relic too."

"No need to beat around the bush – just say what you mean," he snapped.

"Sorry for being so damned direct."

"Well, the old man's not going to let off the hook – is he?"

She shook her head. "No – and how'd you know?" Now Starling's antenna picked up a faint signal.

"I asked him to find you something else but he wouldn't budge. Said you were a tough broad," added Bond and curled the corner of his mouth into grin.

"So what's _your_ problem then – working with me?"

"Look, you've got no real experience. And this may not be the right assignment to pick it up."

"No real experience heh?" She threw the report on the desk. "Well, it looks like we're both shit out of luck."

:

The walk to Bradley's office was polite but chilly. Entering a large conference room, it was typical of any fortune 500 firm with the exception of metal shielding that completely surrounded the ceiling and walls. Radiated RF and spy satellites of the cold war had changed the nature of even the simplest conversations.

Bradley was sitting at the end of a long oval table. He was fidgeting over a computer attached to a ceiling mounted projection system. M was off to one side and leering at the apparatus contemptuously.

"No doughnuts?" quipped Bond. M looked up as if to scold and then renewed his gaze on Bradley's computer projected onto a screen dropped from the ceiling. Tapping quietly away, Bradley softly cleared his throat.

"Good morning M, Bond, and Miss Starling. Hopefully we can clear up a few things today. We have for some time been tracking a world-class hacker who goes by the alias of _Shaggy Dog_. It's a signature really – a weakness of vanity," he said and looked around to sample responses. They were none.

"We believe _Shaggy Dog_, like many top hackers today, originated in China. The European bloc is another top breeding ground, but we'll get to them later. We believe he gained proficiency in the Chinese Army intelligence unit that specializes in hacking before moving on to work as a highly sought after free-lance."

Bradley paused to peep over the top of his carry mug and then continued. Bond watched Starling cross her legs carefully in the short skirt. M was chewing on an unlit pipe and more relaxed now.

"Now," continued Bradley. "how we track the Hackers: we have a system, the Yanks call it XKS or XKEYSCORE. That's just a name really. Our system is unnamed but the software is almost the same. All internet traffic travels across large pathways called a backbone. The internet packet has a source and destination address field for identification. These of course are spoofed by the hacker. Now, XKS is a data recording tool in the simplest of terms. These tools lie scattered around the internet backbone. We have about 60 here in the UK – the US has about 120 across the globe. When used systematically the flow of internet traffic can be monitored."

"So we shouldn't have any trouble then," said Bond, pedantically.

"No, in the perfect world we should not. Of course that's never how it works, is it?"

"No," replied Bond.

"There's a trick that consists of using relay stations. The hacker finds a way into computers far from his location or outside of the most direct path and begins his or her hacking there," he said while smiling at agent Starling. "This complicates matters a bit."

"So let me guess," injected Starling. "_Billingsly Brokerage _was a relay station."

"It certainly appears that way. When Bond unplugged their Ethernet cable and then plugged in our dongle, later that night, it was a sure signal the system had been tampered with. It must have been a key relay station or else they wouldn't have bothered with it; they would have simply unplugged it from their network."

"So that's how we got caught," said Bond.

"Yes, you were there for an hour after inserting the dongle?"

Bond nodded.

"They probably discovered their packets were being redirected. And they called in the dogs."

"So the dongle was a blunder then," added Bond.

"Yes, but we didn't know we were dealing with world class hackers at _Billingsly Brokerage_."

There was a long silence around the room.

"This hacker you mentioned..."

"Shaggy Dog."

"Yes. You say he's free-lance?"

"We think so. Not the typical signature of the Red Army hackers at all."

"Do we have any idea who he's working for?" asked M.

Bradley shook his head. "No sir."

"Then for all this technical mumbo-jumbo we still don't know a damned thing – other than _Billingsly Brokerage and Tangent Industries_ were somehow involved," fired M and slammed down the pipe. "World class hackers, hell this is something for well funded terrorist groups, not a small time trafficking operation."

"We'll have to go back sir."

Everyone gawked at Starling at the same time.

"Go back?"

"Yes sir – back to that night at _Billingsly Brokerage. _We followed _Tangent Industries_. We really needed a lead on the hit-man and the driver. All we know is that _Tangent_ was charged for the car rental. That doesn't guarantee they were involved to any greater degree. It's who hired the hit-man and the driver that we're after."

"Damnit. This whole thing is mental," barked M and looked at Bond. "Bond I want some clear answers here. This little training assignment has led to something bigger. I want you and Starling to find a real lead – is that clear?"

"Yes sir," chorused Bond and Starling.

‡‡‡‡‡

Two days later, Bond and Starling were still recovering from M's scathing appraisal of the situation. Once again they were in Starling's cramped cubicle and looking over police reports of the black muscle car.

"You must persuade M to get you better quarters."

"How will I do that until we break this case? Shall we move to your office?"

"No, so whad you find?"

"The police did contact _Tangent Industries_ about the car. Between the police and the Brazilian field office we get a fair picture. According to the field office, the CFO's son works in a small office in London. He's a partygoer and a skirt chaser. According to his the story the car was stolen."

"But there was no police report filed."

"No there wasn't: claimed he didn't know anything until we found it."

"Likely story. So whats your plan from here?"

"We make contact..."

"How?"

"There's a fund raiser in two nights from now. The young man in question: Marco Evangelies will attend, representing _Tangent Industries_. It's a minor celebrity and faces event at the Claridge's. Lot's of pretty faces and token commitments. Oh, and lot's of T an A. Just the thing for this guy."

Bond was amused at Starling's appraisal and her story.

"Isn't this a bit of a coincidence? The two of us were nearly blown up visiting his dad's company a few days ago?"

"Look, he wasn't there and if this report on his profile is correct, I'm guessing this guy doesn't know or give a damn what goes on back home. Besides, it really doesn't matter. If he spooks, then there's no harm done, but right now it's the only card we have."

"You're sure on this huh?"

"I think we should go! Ought to be right down your alley Bond."

"You've been reading the wrong reports agent Starling."

"Ah, no way. Your antics are legend. So what do you think?"

"That this is barely above police work. We can't let M find out we're taking another pass at _Tangent_ by attending a fund raiser... he'll make us both redundant. And you're sure this gent will be there."

"Well, we've checked booking and he's staying at the hotel." Starling paused to brush a few wayward strands of fringe out of her eyes. "We should chat him up and put the squeeze on him if need be. We can work on a good story. After a few drinks – I'll do my best to distract him while you search his room."

Bond nodded slowly as if thinking. He wasn't really thinking – just trying to picture Starling dressed to the nines in an evening gown. After several warm visions rolled across his mind, he settled on a sleek black number with a plunging neckline.

"Well, if you really think we should."

:

They took the company Limo to Claridge's. Claridge's – there wasn't a more opulent or recherché or more over the top hotel in London. Bond was surprised the hotel would stoop to hosting a fund raiser. Having been there only once, to the famous Christmas special, Bond thought the place a magnet to the highest born and the highest paid. Everyone who was anyone had at one time or another strolled through the lavish corridors of Claridge's. There was a story that made it's way around after _world war two_ when a caller phoned the hotel and asked to speak with the king. The telephone operator promptly answered: _which one?_

He wasn't quite sure if he fit into a place like Claridge's, but he had little doubt Starling looked the part. Decked out in a silky and shining black gown, it showcased her goods with a daring décolletage and thigh high splits down both sides. She moved gracefully and with an ethereal charm in thin strapped heeled sandals. The pageboy was gathered and clipped behind her with a little flower over the right diamond studded ear.

Escorted in by the bulbous doorman, they took in the palatial decorations while keeping an eye out for Marco Evangelies. Many of the corridor nooks and crannies contained old pictures of long ago festivities, marred only by the inabilities of turn of the century cameras. Quicker film-speed and lower F stops would have improved them greatly. Through eddies and currents of meandering guests they mingled with chit-chat and small talk.

Amused by Starling's stunning gown Bond had to ask. "Where do you hide a gun in that outfit?"

"You taking the piss? How could I hide a gun here?"

Bond looked at her hard.

"You are carrying?"

"Of course – a Beretta P-4 subcompact in the carry bag." She lifted a little silver and faux diamond studded handbag as evidence.

Bond smiled and steered Starling through the gaggling crowd. Immediately all the male heads turned toward her, leaving him a few moments to appraise the situation to himself.

"We simply can't pass the bar," he whispered. "A thing like that, is simply not done at the Claridge's."

"Wondered when you'd get around to that."

Behind the bar, two barmen were working the large crowd with a professional touch rarely seen in modern days.

"Help you sir?"

"Yes, a vodka martini – Smirnoff black – shaken not stirred," he replied and looked at Starling inquisitively. At first she shook her head.

"Oh, maybe I'd better. It'll help if I look tipsy."

"Barkeep – make it two," he said with two fingers up.

"I'll have to get my phone near his – if that's possible."

"Oh really," Bond replied and sampled the drink "What for?"

"Q. He's tricked up my phone. It works like on of those kissing apps. If I can get mine close to his we can retrieve his whole phone book."

"Excellent."

"I thought it was clever as well."

"No I meant the vodka martini – but the phone trick is handy."

Starling answered the levity with a mock frown. At last she sampled her drink.

"Damn – how do to you drink these things?"

"Rather easily – would you have preferred something else?"

She shook her head in small fast movements. Apparently her eye caught something and she froze.

"I think that's him," she said. "Over there." She dug her phone out of the silver handbag and quickly pulled up a picture. The picture was a near match plus he was wearing a Tangent Industries name tag.

Bond took Starling by the arm while they browsed through the guests toward Marco Evangelies. With another look, Lady Luck's smile fell to a frown. Marco looked behind him to gather in his date, a lovely dark skinned brunette.

Date or no, Bond continued to steer Starling toward a collision course.

A meter away, Starling feigned surprise to spot Marco's name tag. She looked back at Bond and then at Marco.

"Look dear, _Tangent Industries_," she said, first to Bond and then to Marco. The man was caught off guard.

"You know our business?" he asked and furrowed a brow.

"Oh yes, we were there – only two weeks ago?" she said and looked to Bond for confirmation.

"Yes, that's right dear. Brasilia is lovely this time of year."

"Really," he replied with a smile that said: _are you for real?_

"Certainly, and you're the first business we know here. Would you care for a drink?" Bond asked.

"Oh yes, that would be lovely," chimed Starling while playing tipsy.

Marco wasn't taking the bait. He fidgeted awkwardly.

"Why not have a drink Marco – I need to sit down," said the girlfriend. Marco nodded curt little nods that seemed to say _yeah, yeah, yeah_ back.

They got drinks at the bar and waited for seating with no luck. The hotel lobby was filling up and empty tables were few and far between. To have any chance at all they'd have to find a table soon. Bond kept up the boring banter about Brazilian vegetation while Starling made subtle come-on eye contact with Marco whenever his date wasn't looking. Always the skeptic it seemed to have little effect.

"Well, that's interesting Mister – er..."

"Winston. Derek Winston," replied Bond.

Marco nodded. "But we should be mingling on." His girlfriend frowned lugubriously and sat down her drink glass.

"Wait a minute," said Bond and grabbed Marco's arm. The man looked at Bond hand on his arm offensively. "Let's cut the small talk then; let's talk business."

"But Mister Winston, this is a charity event."

"A good business-man takes opportunities as they come to him."

Marco conceded with a little wave.

"Very well then. Where should we talk business?" Marco looked around the crowed room and threw his palms up.

"I'll get the Maitre d' – he'll find us something."

Bond motioned to the first staff-member he saw and said a few words into the man's ear. The man scampered off to return a few moments later. He led Bond and the group to a quiet conference room on the second level, far away from the noise and clatter below.

Marco leaned back in a black glove leather chair. "Okay Mister Winston – what's on your mind?"

"We have a fledgling chain of retail stores – arts and crafts – that kind of thing," began Bond. Marco nodded disinterestedly. "And we have a labor problem."

"What kind of labor problem?" asked Evangelies.

"I'll get refills?" interrupted Starling. She grabbed up a few empty glasses and disappeared.

Marco and Bond smiled at the intrusion and then leveled their concentration back to each other.

"...the kind we have to pay," Bond fired back.

Stoically, Marco froze at the remark.

"I'm not sure if I understand what you mean."

"I think you do – your office in Brasilia didn't understand either. But we hoped you would."

Marco's girlfriend began to look around the room nervously.

Starling popped back in with the drinks. The girl's glass was not empty but Starling gave her a fresh one anyway. The girl looked surprised but smiled _thanks_.

"So you need cheap labor Mister Winston?"

Bond nodded. Starling extracted her mobile from the silver bag and began to play with it as usual.

"Well, don't we all, but I would have thought our people would have given you a reasonable offer."

"It was reasonable, but not cheap enough. Perhaps if told us your source – that would be helpful."

Marco rolled his eyes.

"Sir, I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"The free kind of labor. Indentured servants, that kind of thing," answers Starling.

"Oh, now I see," said Marco with a wry smile. "I might could help with that – but first: I need to visit the loo."

Evangelies excused himself. Starling watched him leave and then looked hard at Bond. This was sure as hell trouble. He would call on their story. He might even bring a friend.

"Don't think I got your name?" asked Starling.

"Angelina." Already Angelina was slurring her words. She maybe had five minutes left before the Mickey Starling slipped in her drink knocked her off to sleep. Starling went back to her phone and Bond his drink.

By the time Marco returned, Angelina was sleeping on her arms crossed on the table. The door opened and two pairs of footsteps entered the room. The second man was bigger than Marco.

"I'd like you to meet a friend," began Marco. "And what have you done to my date?"

"She's fine," replied Starling. "Can't handle her booze, that's all." Marco sneered, angrily.

Bond and Starling rose to face both Men. The big man was holding a gun aimed at Bond's belly.

"Roberto, check em for guns."

Roberto shook the gun vertically for Bond to raise his hands. He frisked him for only a second before finding the Walther. He pulled it from the chamois holster and dropped it in his over-sized pocket. He turned toward Starling. She stood firm and erect, but the pretty face now reflected concern.

He wrenched the silver clutch out of her hands and, ripping the fabric, crudely tore it open while somehow still pointing the gun. Turning the bag over, the Beretta fell on the carpeted floor. The man laughed.

"Call that a gun?"

"No, I wouldn't. But that it a Jimmy Choo handbag, or it was till you ruined it."

"Shut up," he barked.

"Is this any way to treat a potential customer?" Bond injected.

"You're no customer Mister Bond – yes, I checked your story – and it was true. Part of it at least."

"Yes, I left off the part where you tried to have us killed."

"Tried twice..." chimed Starling.

"I told you to shut up," barked big man.

"_You_ shut up," said Bond and inched forward. Bond's right hand was now behind him. The man took full notice of Bond and the disappearing hand.

What he failed to see was agent Starling high heels under the table and her standing barefoot in a strong defensive posture. The high splits in her evening gown now revealed their dichotomic purpose. Her rose varnished piggies were curling into the carpet for traction. The only perfunctory movement was that her body tensed slightly; like the winding of a spring. Still the man was clueless.

Almost too quick to see, Starling flashed a front kick with her right foot, hitting the man's gun hand in the wrist. The wrist bent at a right angle and the gun turned out of the way.

Starling made a little feint counter rotation to her right and then jammed everything she had into a spin to her left. The right foot came off the floor in a slow sweeping motion then gained speed as it rose higher and extended away from her body. By the time her heel was inches from the man's temple the spinning back kick was moving too fast to see.

Like a swat on the side of the head from a cricket bat, the man was down. His eyes rolled back in his head as he fell in a heap. He was out cold or dead. Starling grabbed up the Beretta, clicked off the safety, and pointed it at Marco's still gaping mouth.

Bond fished through the man's pocket and retrieved the Walther.

"Sit the fuck down," he ordered Marco. Marco did so immediately as he turned a lighter shade of pale. "Now, you're going to talk – do you understand."

The man nodded sourly.

"First," said Starling, let's get his phone.

"I don't have it – it's in my room."

"You've got another friend then?" said Bond, suspiciously.

"No," he argued. Bond reached into his back pocket and pulled out a six inch metallic cylinder. He carefully placed the silencer on the barrel and began to turn it slowly. Marco's eyes followed every turn.

"Pull off the coat."

"Okay, okay. Here's the damn phone," he said and reached inside the coat.

"SLOW."

His hand came out with the phone and he set it on the table carefully.

"Over here," pointed Starling, to her side of the table.

With the phone in hand, she first used the kissing app to extract data and then cracked open the case like an egg. She removed the SIM chip and snapped the halves back together.

"Okay," Bond said. "We're in no mood for any more Brazilian bullshit. Tell us who tried to kill us?"

"I don't know," Marco pleaded.

"You're lying."

"No – I swear it wasn't us. You must have a lot of enemies Bond."

"Okay. Who were the men in the black Charger? The car you rented. And who sent them to kill us?"

"I don't know. The car was stolen."

Bond exhaled sharply. "I guess we better lock the door." Starling reached over and complied.

Bond straightened his arm in the direction of Marco's legs. With a little squeeze, the Walther coughed lightly, squelched by the silencer. Marco screamed and reached to stop the blood pouring out of his right thigh.

"Now, we've been strong armed, shot at, and almost blown up on your orders."

"No, no..."

"Well, then it was someone connected to you. One way or another Mister Evangelies, I intend to get some answers. Do you understand."

"Yes," he answered feebly.

"That's not convincing," Bond said and raised the gun again.

"No – please – no. I'll tell you anything you want to know."

:

* * *

A/N: Story hits start out slow after a new chapter and then pick up later - that's a little odd. Most of the hits came out of the UK this month; that's cool too. In any case, a big thanks goes out to all the readers.


	8. The Fox and the Hounds

:

**Say You Love Me **

**Chapter 8.**

**The Fox and the Hounds**

"You didn't have to shoot him James. Now M will know exactly what we've been up to. I thought you wanted to avoid that."

"Hell, we needed the information," growled Bond. "Besides we've been damn near killed on this bloody assignment and on more than one occasion."

"I thought that happened on all your assignments."

"You listen to too much gossip."

"Ah no, it's not just gossip – anyway, what's our next move?"

"We move on the names he gave us."

"You think we can?"

"You ran them – right?"

"Demetrius Poledouris – been off the radar for the last five years."

"Before that?"

"Last records showed him listed as muscle for the Russian mob. Picked up this trade as a minor member of a central European drug cartel. Then he just fell off the ends of the earth."

"He's got protection now, and the anonymity that goes along with it. When we find out who – we'll be much closer."

"Maybe your SPECTRE?"

"Who knows. Anything on that other bloke he mentioned?"

"Andrei Syncilly: Electronic bank fraud, financial hacking on point of sale computers, now a hack for hire allover Europe. This one is definitely worth following but with no known base of operations."

"That's our man. He should get us closer to this Shaggy Dog."

"How the hell do we find him."

"We don't."

"We don't?" she said and wriggled her small nose.

"We let him find us. We'll need Bradley's help for this one."

"Explain."

"Simple – we get back to using our real identities and let Bradley drop cyber bread crumbs. I mean, hell, they've found us every time, but his time we'll be ready."

"Ah jeez, that sounds like a long shot."

"You got anything better?"

Starling pulled a little animated frown and shook her head.

‡‡‡‡‡

"I would never have thought Istanbul," lamented Starling.

"That's the best guess out of Bradley's group."

"I just would have never thought it. I mean, Istanbul of all places."

"It's the only city in the world that spans two continents," said Bond. "The European side is one of the biggest financial networks in that part of the world, besides Car rentals and credit-card traffic says he's there."

"Yeah, I understand. It just wasn't my first guess," she kept on.

"Well," pondered Bond. "It's as good as any I suppose. Here, this looks like a good person to annoy."

Bond proceeded up to a young man that looked like an Airport security agent at Heathrow. He flipped open a credentials wallet for the agent to see."

"Morning old man," began Bond. The man took one look at Bond and then studied his identification. Bond's credentials didn't identify him as MI6, but it did identify him clearly as a high ranking member of her Majesty's section of undercover operatives.

"This says you're permitted to carry concealed. Are you carrying sir?"

"Yes," answered Bond. "Me and _my_ partner." The young man's eyes widened a bit. Agent Starling had reached into her jacket and produced similar identification.

The man nodded. "Right this way sir."

Led away from the river of check-in traffic to a small office, Bond and Starling produced Letters of Authority and filled in more forms. In a matter of minutes they were sitting at their respective gate. Starling always took a seat to watch foot traffic coming in and out of the gate. Bond, looking like the proper businessman, sat one seat over and appeared to be reading a business-journal.

'British Airways flight 505 to Istanbul, boarding gate B24.'

A horde of travelers immediately jumped up to form a line. Starling looked perfectly stylish in a grey suit made of a slick looking fabric with an almost metallic sheen. The trousers cinched her narrow waist but were cut full and comfortable in every other way. Her jacket was also a bit roomy, leaving plenty of space for the Glock 19 to feel right at home. She moved effortlessly and quietly in glove leather loafers with no hosiery. Pulling a small carry-on, she and Bond looked the perfect business couple.

Bond hated carry-on bags of any kind. Of a true business nature, there were never any documents he was allowed to take out of the secured environment of MI6. The most he ever carried was a magazine rolled and stored under his arm. If he had to pull a gun in a crowed airport, the magazine might come in handy.

Starling would balk at his methods. The first day would go just fine. Snooping around into places Syncilly had lived and worked would seem normal enough and should suffice to introduce their presence. After that, they would cool their heels, and take in the sights of the Istanbul Starling had never seen. This would give Bond a chance to poke at her hard crusty exterior. Was there a soft filling? She wouldn't appreciate him trying to find out. Besides, it was very likely they would be followed and would have to keep a close watch behind them and not accept just any taxi.

The wide body Boeing approached Istanbul from the north, over the black sea, before turning south to begin descent from the Sea of Marmara. The seat belt warning signs lit in unison as stewards began up and down the aisles to tidy and make sure all the passengers complied.

The beautiful Turkish coastline came up fast as the huge jet began an almost straight descent into Ataturk international. With Starling glued to the window they completed their descent with the squalling protest of rubber tires on hot tarmac. The temperature, humidly, and cabin smells immediately changed walking down the narrow tube to the airport boarding gate. Starling was instantly overdressed and Bond wondered if she'd brought a change in the carry-on.

Sent from the field office, they waited patiently for a black Mercedes. There would take no more chances taken with exploding vehicles. They made a call the office to verify the driver before accepting the ride.

Starling had changed into Khaki shorts and a loose airy top for dinner with several agents from the field office. They explained the man they were after had attempted fraudulent withdrawals on Deutsche Bank, and Garanti Bank with no luck before cracking HSBC Bank for big numbers. It was speculated by Bradley that another, outside hacker, was able to cause a problem and Syncilly, posing as a technician, came to investigate. This was all the introduction the man needed. Once familiar with their computer hardware and systems, which was all American made, the hacker was home free.

Ali Tilki Uzun and the junior Turkish officers from Station T felt their plan was a little overambitious and voiced the opinion that Starling and Bond's unfortunate encounters may have been more a stroke of bad luck rather than cyber stalking.

"Well, perhaps," replied Bond, "but we won't be taking chances all the same. Tomorrow we stop by all these banks and ask a lot of questions. Syncilly has stayed at several hotels since arriving. We'll also stop by those although we don't expect him to just be hanging around for our convenience. And... he may have jumped ship entirely."

:

It went almost according to plan. Two of the banks were willing to discuss their recent hack attacks and were receptive to suggestions on how to thwart them. The third bank; the one that was successfully hacked was not. They feared the bad publicity that went along with such investigations. Better to let the insurers settle the matter and sweep this unfortunate business under the Persian rug.

Of the hotels Syncilly was thought to be a guest, only the last turned out to be of any help. It was a nice garden hotel in the old part of the city. They didn't employ computers or have any connections to the internet that would leave a cyber trail. His movements had been tracked by cell tower triangulation technologies and nearby credit-card purchases. Bradley kept them informed of any information he found.

When they found the room it looked like Syncilly left in a hurry. They quickly collected a pile of debris in the form of receipts, scribbled notes, and matchbook covers. The prize turned out to be a small SIM chip discarded in the en-suite bathroom wastebasket. Using a phone-app, Starling discovered a nearby Wi-Fi point that was unlocked and open. No doubt their man was using this to stay connected.

Then the trail ran cold. Nothing new was found and no more messages from Bradley. Starling was, as predicted by Bond, becoming quite impatient. It was however her first assignment and impatience was to be naturally expected.

:

It was now time to take in the sights of Istanbul and let the fox come to the prey. Bond and Starling took in a small breakfast at their hotel. The Sultania was well centered in the old section of Istanbul and naturally protected from intruders, solicitors, and the like. They would be most careful when re-entering the rooms at the end of the day. They would enter each room together with guns drawn and carefully 'clean' the room. Recording devices and other security measures were taken to root out any intruders.

Transportation was carefully selected. There was a nearby tram and all taxis were stopped on the street entirely by random. All of this was based on the supposition that while Bond and Starling tracked Syncilly via Bradley, someone else was tracking Bradley. It was as Tilki Uzun had said: _all tricky business_.

:

Years ago, when Starling was most likely in nappies, Bond had worked Istanbul. It was all a nasty business and most unpleasant telling the sons of Ali Kerim Bey that their father was dead. He still didn't know what to think of it, but he did become acquainted with Istanbul and knew of many tourist stops, which Istanbul appeared to have in an endless supply. Their tour on this day began with taking the public ferry up the Bosphorus strait all the way to the waterside village of Andalou Kavagi. They stopped to get large straw hats and followed a long trail under the hot sun that led them to _Genoese Castle_. After a long look at the castle and a view of the Black Sea as seen by Byzantine occupants in 400AD, it was time to take the return ferry to a nearby fishing village for lunch.

Starling had been taciturn all morning. This wasn't terribly unusual; she'd pretty much been this way since beginning this assignment. He had hoped the Holiday nature of this trip might lighten her mood. As usual, she sat looking over a view of foot traffic coming and going from the cafe.

"How long do we do this?" she asked.

"Are you growing tired of _this_ already." She'd never come out and said it but he strongly suspected she disliked his plan.

She shook her head. "No, I like it – that's what worries me."

"Really," he said and took a healthy pull from his beer. "Explain please?"

"I feel more comfortable feeling an edge," she said firmly and then smiled at the incongruity. "At work, that is."

"Sure, there's a time when we need to embrace that – but – there are also times to relax," he replied. "You have to give the bad ones time to act."

"For sure," she fired back. "Which gets back to my original question."

Bond grinned, but wouldn't spar with her. "I don't suppose it was classified, what M said about you. He mentioned something about a relative of yours – she was SOE?"

"That's kind of personal, isn't it 007?"

In her cubicle she'd called him James. Here in Turkey, and alone, it was back to 007.

"I suppose it is. Sorry then."

There was a silent moment of iciness between them.

"She was my Grandmother. Captured by the Germans, but she survived," she said after reflection.

"I can _see_ that," he said playfully.

"Yes, but it was rough for her – she almost didn't."

Bond could tell, even under the oversized Ran Bans that she was scanning and cataloging everything going on behind him.

"She must have been very intense and I can see that in you."

"Yes but – but can we just keep it…"

"...keep it professional? Of course, I was hoping it might loosen things up a bit to have a real conversation."

"It doesn't have to be professional," she said defensively. "And just what is it you don't like about me Bond – and don't give me that crap about not having experience."

"That wasn't all crap!"

"It wasn't the only reason though – was it?"

"No," he said firmly.

"What's the other?" she asked and lifted the Ray Bans.

Bond ducked the question to look about the calm waters of the Bosphorus. Suddenly he focused on Starling, looking her over from head to toe.

"You're rather good looking," he blurted, and Starling chuckled.

"And that's a problem?" she asked.

Bond nodded diagonally. "Yes – a little."

"Would it help if I looked like a man?" she teased.

"Stop it – you know what I mean."

Starling took off the Ran Bans and twirled them by the temple. She looked pleasantly amused.

"Well James – so do you," she said at length. "But I'll try to keep my mind on business."

Bond was suddenly reminded of the time and glanced at his watch. "We better be heading back. The ferry should be back soon. You wouldn't want to be stuck here."

Starling appeared relieved as if moved by Bond's clumsy attempt to eliminate the rough edges between them. Once back on the ferry she quickly cased out all the passengers but appeared to be more relaxed as she took in the sights along the Bosphorus.

:

The next day began right after a quick bite in the hotel lobby. Starling tried to be engaging in conversation but expressed little enthusiasm with the mission. He spirits lifted after catching the first boat ferry.

The _Sultan Ahmed Mosque_, or simply the _Blue Mosque_ as it was casually referred to, would be the next stop. The huge and touristy attraction resembled the Taj Mahal with it's needle-like menarets and multiple domes.

Once again Starling opted for a large straw hat. Until the sun drew high overhead she would wear it behind her hanging on a string around her neck. She wore a blue collarless wrap blouse with V past the sternum. Turkey is quite out-spoken about being a secularist country but most of the population is Muslim and dresses so. Starling stood out, even among the other European tourists with the risque top and a Straw hat in place of the head scarf or the traditional Tesettür

Once inside the Mosque, officials were handing out scarves and zip up dresses to women who were inappropriately dressed to visit a mosque. Inside the awkward gown Starling was fuming.

"This thing is awful James – it's hot and I feel like a sausage."

So inside the mosque it was back to James now!

Bond smiled. "The tour won't be long."

"Well... I can't reach the Glock – so be warned."

Bond inspected the long turquoise blue dress. He totally expected to find a tag saying it was made in China. He felt around for the gun and found it resting over her right thigh.

"Sorry, you can't do that in here James," she quipped.

Taking out a small penknife, he cut an eight inch slash over the pocket holding the Glock.

After the tour Starling quickly came out of the gown and rushed out to the lavish gardens around the grounds. She went straight away to a shaded bench and plopped down with her elbows on her knees. Bent over this way the top dropped open, letting in the fresh air. Bond got his first full glimpse of her breasts before joining her on the stone bench.

:

They spent the rest of the day milling around from one tourist stop to the next aimlessly. Finding a pleasant place to sit Bond would chatter about Istanbul, previous assignments, and the strange people he'd encountered. Back with the hat and Ran Bans, Starling would sit laconically and take in his stories. Scanning over the crowds, and cataloging every face she met, she would occasionally stop to look his way and smile.

She was much more relaxed and would often slouch in the hot sun. Strange or out of character sounds might make her jump – she was still a bit edgy.

Now Bond would use a cruel trick. He would use her inexperience and edginess as a type of reverse barometer. When Starling finally and completely relaxed, when she had given up hope of encountering the enemy, Bond's years of experience told him that trouble would be just around the corner. He couldn't tell her his plan – that would ruin it.

It was the third day of meandering through the city. Starling was wearing a blue tie-dyed frock that had Bond guessing where she hid her gun. It was about knee length and he would bet more than even money that it was nestled somewhere in a thigh holster. She was so insouciant at this point she suggested they split up while touring the Basilica Cistern.

Reluctantly Bond agreed, but reminded her he couldn't allow her to get completely out of sight.

"Oh, don't worry," she said with a smile and Bond frowned his displeasure. "Really James; I don't think we'll find him."

By 'him' she meant whoever in the hell it was they were looking for. Bond nodded his approval and watched Starling swish away in the lightweight frock.

The cistern, a cathedral sized underground reservoir, began construction by Emperor Constantine and was finished by Justinian. The ceiling was held in place by a forest of over three hundred columns thirty feet in height. After sweltering in the Ottoman sun all day Starling had suggested they stop there. Bond didn't want to go; he still had bad feeling about the place from his first visit with Ali Kerim Bey years ago.

Fifteen paces – then twenty five. At thirty five he would keep this distance or shorten it. Starling had just passed the sideways Medussa and stopped to look over the rail for a few moments. When she pushed away from the rail she spun back to face him, but she deliberately failed to make eye contact!

Bond pressed on a little harder, looking for whatever the hell it was that spooked her. Had she seen a reflection in the water? A figure she recognized? She kept walking but paused to look this way and that. Was she looking for reflections in the water or mirrowed images on the facings of slick marble columns? Apparently she thought she was being followed. Damn, would she ever slow up?

Now for some reason she moved into a dimmer lit row of columns. Why the hell had she done that?

There was the cough of a silencer from an automatic. Bond saw the man now, tall, in a light tan suit. The bullet hit a column in front of Starling. She immediately turned to face the attacker. Bond flipped off his sandals. The flooring around the cistern was just quiet enough not to leave the sound of bare slapping feet as he picked up the pace to a trot.

Starling went for the Glock just as the attacker was on her. He grabbed her by the throat, pinning her to a huge marble column behind her and pulled her arm and hand away from the gun. With powerful legs she launched a knee to man's groin that almost lifted him off the ground. The big man didn't flinch. Either he had bollocks of steel or was wearing a cup. Now he was reaching up her skirt for the Glock.

Bond had his gun trained on the man's head. If his hand came out of Starling's skirt with the Glock, he'd take a shot to the man's temple, but they desperately needed him alive. Starling finally spun a left elbow to man's nose as he bent to reach under her skirt. The man recoiled from the blow. It was all the distraction Bond needed.

With two more long strides, the man turned to face the sound of something fast approaching. With everything he had, Bond put an overhead blow with the butt end of the Walther to the man's forehead. He went backwards to the ground and rolled for a moment with Bond standing over with an extended arm. Finally his eyes rolled back into his head and he stopped moving.

From the choking she took, Starling was still wobbly and almost took a tumble herself. Bond caught her by the shoulders and propped her up against the column.

"Damn," she managed hoarsely. "I thought you'd let him kill me."

"You opened up too much distance – who the hell is he."

Starling shook and cleared her head. "Saw him the other day at the Mosque."

Bond nodded. She quickly recovered and pulled her shoulders from his grip.

Bond looked down at the motionless figure. "We'll talk to this bastard when he wakes up."

:

* * *

A/N: Thanks so much for the comments from IKhandoZatman, and AmalieNico and sincere grats to all the readers.


	9. Bedtime Stories

:

****Say You Love Me** **

**Chapter 9.**

**Bedtime Stories**

The big man was tied to a small wooden chair, barely big enough to hold him. He'd been tied there for twenty seven hours. Whenever he tried to drift off, agents of the Istanbul office would drench him with cold water. Whenever he lied or failed to answer questions they beat him with a rubber baton. His face was purpled and puffy.

Running square against the grain of Istanbul fashion, Starling entered the room with a light and airy summer dress. Bond followed in tow and stood back in the room to watch his female counterpart at work. She proceeded up to Poledouris and stood there until he lifted puffy eyelids.

"You remember me?"

Poledouris took one glance and let his head fall.

"HEY! You remember me?"

He looked up again and managed a nod before letting his head fall again.

"Wake him up," she said to station T associates. One young field agent picked up a plastic pitcher of ice water and threw it in the face of Poledouris. He gasped and them blew out a mouthful of water he'd inhaled. At last he seemed to fully comprehend agent Starling.

"Are you with us now?"

He nodded, this time a bit more convincingly.

"Good. Now where do we find Andrei Syncilly?"

He shook his head. "Don't know him," he managed in unpolished English.

"You're lying – he's in your phone – in your contact list."

"No. No he's not."

"Yes he is. His alias: Sergei Isilander – in your phone," she insisted.

"I don't know. I don't know anything."

"We're running out of time – and we'll fucking kill you; do you understand?"

He looked up briefly at Starling and then dropped his head as before. Bond could see she had failed to earn the man's fear. She would have to do something to prove she was willing to kill him. Would she do that? Or the correct question might be: could she?"

She stood there, knowingly repulsed, and getting angrier by the minute. She reached out to smack the sweat and water drenched head. Droplets of water went flying. She had her man's attention once again.

"Look at me," she said. As the man lifted his head, she lifted her skirt and held it there for a few moments. The eyes of Poledouris widened. Standing well behind her, Bond couldn't see what she was showing him.

She then reached across, probably to a left thigh holster and pulled the Glock 19 and dropped the skirt. Bond would have guess she carried it on her right thigh, but maybe that interfered with one of her prized Taekwondo kicks.

"I'm going to blow your ballocks off," she said flatly and informatively. "First your right and then your left."

Now Bond understood that little play with the skirt. She was reminding him exactly what his balls were good for.

The man's eyes widened but failed to show real fear. The explosion of the 9mm in the basement office was deafening. The man jumped, but with legs and arms tied, the chair rocked but never toppled.

There was a pencil sized hole in the chair an inch from the man's groin.

"Are you going to talk? Are you going to tell us how to find Andrei Syncilly?"

Once again the fool looked up unconvincingly and let his head fall.

"I can't see his nuts – pull his waistband tight," she instructed the Station T agents. The same agent pulled the corners of his mouth into a grin. With Poledouris' legs bound to the chair the two agents did as Starling instructed until the man's testicles were clearly outlined by the tight fabric.

"Your last chance," she warned. "Are you gonna talk?"

He looked up groggy but still unresponsive.

Starling made a show of taking careful aim, giving the man every opportunity to put an end to his own demise. Bond could see the muscles in her jaw tighten imperceptibly.

Once more the gun barked, deafening in the small room. Every muscle in the man's body jerked convulsively at that moment. This time the chair nearly came off the ground, rocked, and then toppled over. Jerking so hard the right armrest wall pulled loose. Starling immediately took a bead on the man's head in case he managed to pull himself free.

The two Station T agents quickly righted the chair and used some extra nylon rope to bind the man's arm to his side. The right side of his crotch was a bloody mess.

"Good," said Starling. "Hold him this time."

The two agents held Poledouris by the shoulders. Slowly, Starling extended the weapon and took aim.

"The next one will be between the eyes," she said. Now Bond could see real fear and confusion in the man's eyes.

"No. NO," he pleaded just at the moment the next explosion would have occurred.

"Where is he?" she responded and lowered the gun.

"I talk – I talk."

"Good decision." Starling made a show of lifting the skirt and re-holstered the weapon.

"You tell these men what they want to know. If you don't I'll be back in..." she pointed at the man's crotch. "...and the other one comes off."

With a quick turn, she left the room. It was a good move, thought Bond. There was no need to express further dialogue with Poledouris and perhaps show him her softer side. There was only one thought he was left with. And that was talk or lose the last of his ballocks.

:

Outside Starling squeezed her temples between her thumb and forefinger through an anguished expression.

"You alright?" asked Bond.

"No – of course not."

"You feel like a raki – let's go for a raki."

"It's eleven thirty in the morning James."

"Hell, it's all the more reason then."

Starling chuckled. "Oh, what the hell."

Out on the street, the crowds mingled amid a bright Turkish mid-day sun. Bond was already sweating under the collar of his cotton jacket. They ducked under a pair of large umbrellas into a small establishment that Bond was familiar with.

Bond and Starling were seated around the çilingir sofrası or 'locksmith table'. Making a decent attempt at the language, Bond requested two glasses of raki. Raki, also known as Lions Milk, was made from the juice of twice-distilled grapes and aniseed. It was about forty five percent alcohol and milky in color. The old woman shot him a dubious glace but returned with the two glasses.

Starling took a full taste and then slammed the glass down.

"Damn, that's strong."

"Yes, it is," answered Bond.

"You like this stuff?"

"Not really," he said and grinned.

Starling laughed and took another sip.

"I didn't like doing that. Just wanted you to know."

"Well, don't start feeling sorry for him. You may have to make good on your promise."

"Yeah, and I will – but I just wanted you to know I'm not the kind if woman that looks for opportunities to take a man's balls off."

Bond grinned. "That's good to know, but all the same I'll try not to cross you."

Starling smiled and looked at him a bit dreamily. Perhaps it was the raki or the çilingir sofrası taking effect.

"You know, I've often wondered but..."

"But what?" she asked.

"...well, I've never worked with a woman..."

"That's rather obvious."

"...and it's not generally the kind of question one colleague asks another..."

"Well then, why ask me?"

Bond paused and wrinkled his brows.

"Maybe I shouldn't."

"Oh shit James – go ahead."

"It's about your double-o. I was wondering..."

"About my first kill. Is that's what's bothering you?"

"Curious would be a better word."

"Oh, okay, curious then. So what do you want to know – whether it was a he or a she?"

Bond nodded, too greedy to speak.

"It was a man."

Bond threw up his hand to stop her.

"Don't answer if you had to do something compromising."

"Compromising? Why would it be compromising? It was a job. You ever have to shag anyone in the line of duty James?"

Bond smiled. "You're getting away from your story."

"I'll take that as a yes. He was an Eastern European double – had been killing our field agents as well some American friends," she explained and took another taste of rike. "The hit was to be clean, discreet – and nothing in public – no CCTV cameras. Nothing to connect the job to MI6."

Bond nodded approvingly. "How'd it go?" Starling continued on.

"Well, the target was a ladies man and frequented several well known clubs. So, I pretty much just waited for him."

"For him to find you?"

She nodded. "You know what the hardest part was – avoiding the lot you didn't want to kill. It didn't take too long, but still it must have been a hundred guys that tried to buy me a drink. A couple did – the one's I felt might be happy with just talking."

She knocked back the last of the riki and sighed.

"He wasn't too bad – as a guy that is. Hated to kill him really, but I kept thinking of the families of those field agents."

"Use a gun?"

"No. It needed to be quiet, and I didn't have the time to attach a silencer. He followed me up to my room but was very suspicious. But I was dressed for the job – short skirts with high splits, low necklines, heels, and that kind of shite. He should have known better," she confessed and shook her head. "It was quiet. He pushed me down on the bed. I had a dagger under the pillow and a gun under the mattress in the case the knife didn't work."

Starling took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

"Well," she said and waved her hand dismissively. "After a time, when he was suitably distracted, I pulled the dagger out from under the pillow. It was his last kiss. I put it right between the cervical vertebrae with a little twist. He never knew what hit him. Made a hell of a mess though."

Bond smiled wryly.

"So," she said and looked hard at Bond. "Am I one of the guys now? A regular mate?"

Bond nodded a bit sideways.

"I'll try and picture you as a regular mate."

There was a quiet pause and then Starling's phone went off. She recognized the number and listened for a few moments before returning the phone to a small bag.

"It's time for us to go back. They want us to look at the transcript, but they think we've got enough."

"That's good. This was well handled Sam. We didn't have a minute to spare."

The mid-day sun outside the Turkish pub was blinding now. He followed Starling's swishing summer dress back to the station office. So they were on first names basis now. Wasn't that cozy. Still, watching her coldly dispatch Poledouris' right nut left him feeling this might not be a woman to get warm with.

‡‡‡‡‡

"No," Bond said flatly. "I know you despise Istanbul but it makes no sense returning to London."

Rebuked, Starling sat stoically over their morning meal.

"So what do we do in the interim?" she snarled.

"We go back over everything Poledouris told us."

"But we've done that and gotten nowhere – every day we sit here the trail gets a day colder."

Bond shook his head. "I know, but it wastes less money killing time here than in London. Besides, we should get word from Bradley in a few days – maybe sooner." Bond put his fork down and pointed a finger. "_And_ you should get used to this."

"And why the hell is that?" she asked suspiciously.

"You'll often find yourself stuck in some undesirable port of call. It makes you think. It makes you learn to be resourceful, and good things often follow."

"Oh," she said with animation. "Thanks dad."

Bond nodded deeply. "Alright, be a smart arse then."

She instantly regretted the offensive quip. She put her hand over his.

"Sorry James, I know you're right – Istanbul, it's just a bit stifling you know."

Bond instantly caught her eye and accepted her gesture as repentance. It was enough. He liked the new Starling much better than the old one. The last thing he needed now was her slipping backwards into melancholy.

"It won't be long," he said and went back to the poached eggs and toast.

:

It was five days. And during that time, Starling's mood was morose but alert and entirely professional. She kept her head in her phone, often checking it for news and the connections that seemed to Bond as a trademark of her generation.

"James," she announced over lunch, "it's new from Bradley!"

"Anything solid?"

"Yes, and guess where?" she said with the first excitement in a week.

"I give up," he surrendered after a pause. "What... and where?"

"Syncilly silly – electronic activity shows him in Paris."

"You're not serious?"

"I am – when can we leave."

"Hell, let's pack now..."

‡‡‡‡‡

Bond would have expected some hole in the world far more boring than Istanbul. But Paris? It just felt like an unlikely destination for a man who knew he was wanted. Syncilly had jumped Istanbul just as soon as he Poledouris was apprehended. No doubt the man knew he was a target. He must of have connections in Paris to travel to a city in the middle of the law enforcement capital headquarters of Europe.

After a longer than normal and bumpy flight they settled down at the Charles De Gaulle International. Quickly gathering in baggage they moved straight away toward the area for passenger departures. Dressed in business professional, Starling was back into trousers and the bulky jacket. Viewed from the back, she could almost be mistaken for a man if it weren't for the shoulder length pageboy. Her mouse-brown hair had been lightened from the Turkish sun even though it had done nothing to improve her spirits.

One phone call to 'Universal Exports' verified the car and driver as authentic. With the driver's help Bond stowed his and Starling's gear and joined his colleague in the back seat.

"The Lancaster," Bond said to the driver, a young man in his mid twenties. The young man appeared pleased, but Starling looked puzzled.

"I thought we were going to the Eiffel Seine," she said with obvious disappointment.

"I changed our bookings."

"You didn't tell me," she retorted.

"Take my word for it – you'll feel better at the Lancaster," Bond replied.

"It's an excellent hotel Miss," piped in the driver, with better than average English.

"I'm sure you're right," she said to Bond, "but you should have told me."

"Sorry – you were in a hurry, remember?"

Starling gave him a sour look and went back to her closest friend – her phone.

:

The Lancaster was a smaller hotel than many, but staffed with helpful employees and lavishly furnished. Unlike the bigger chain hotels that suffered you through any inconvenience and then tried to rectify the problem by offering a discount for the next stay, the 'Lancaster' got it right the first time.

Bond's room was small but comfortably cozy and attractively decorated. He tossed his bags on the bed and peeled off the jacket and threw it over a chair. Starling had declined his invitation for dinner, so he went down to the bar for couple of beers.

Bored with the Parisian coverage of sporting event and two flat beers, he went for a stroll around the building. It was pretty much the same as his last visit, but it never hurt to familiarize oneself with one's surroundings.

He returned to the lift and pushed the UP button. He was clueless about the evening and was thinking of looking up some old friends when the doors popped open to reveal Starling in the back dressed in spandex with a towel around her neck. She's been using the workout machines in the basement. Her hair was tied behind her and droplets of perspiration gathered on her forehead and between her breasts.

She looked up. "Oh, it's you." For a brief self-conscious moment, she looked uncomfortable and wiped her brow and tamped her chest lightly with the towel. Suddenly, she let the towel fall as if embarrassed by the show of vanity.

"Been working out," he said as a statement and not as a question. "I guess I should do that sometimes."

"Yes – you ought to."

There was an awkward moment of silence and the lift doors popped open. They both walked away in silence.

Back in the room, Bond changed into a bathrobe while waiting for the water to get hot. He stripped out of the bathrobe and had one foot in the shower when he heard the phone. With three quick strides he had the device in hand. It was Starling's number.

"This-s Bond."

"James."

"Yeah, you alright?"

"No – not quite. Is it too late to accept your invitation for dinner?"

"Let me check my calender," he said and paused playfully. "Uhmmm, I think I can just squeeze you in."

"Super – what time?"

"Let's say six o'clock in the garden behind the hotel."

"Fine, and what's the dress – formal?"

"You want an honest answer?"

"Of course not – I'll meet you at six."

:

At five thirty, showered and fresh, Bond went down to the 'La Table Du Lancaster'. He took a seat in the far corner of the garden restaurant and enjoyed a beer while waiting for Starling. Fifteen minutes later he spotted her checking in with the Maitre d'. The man mumbled something in French and escorted her in Bond's direction.

She paused in front of the table and modeled her dress.

"It's the only fresh thing I've got left. I was afraid to wear it in Istanbul."

Bond laughed. "I'm glad you didn't – we'd would never got you out."

The khaki colored _shirt_ dress was well above the knee. Even with short heels she was all legs. It was clearly unbuttoned an extra button or two down the front.

"Have a seat – please." He'd decided in Istanbul to drop formalities and just be his ballsy chauvinistic self. And so far, Starling appeared to appreciate the effort.

"It's perfect," he said, still focused on the frock. "Where do you hide a gun in that?"

She didn't reply but made a move with four fingers inside her placket. He guessed it was tucked under her left breast in one of those fancy holsters that clipped to the bottom of her bra.

"Clever. I like that," he said, and motioned for the sommelier.

The young man came running up and stopped at their table and handed Bond the wine list.

"Nous avons un vin régional spécial disponible," he said, invitingly.

Bond took one look and handed the menu back to the waiter.

"Ce sera parfait," he replied. The waiter smiled understandably and scampered off to return a minute later with the wine.

After he had poured them a glass and disappeared Starling began.

"Shouldn't we be moving on Syncilly?"

Bond nodded. "I suppose – yes, but since we're relying on Bradley to provide the trail of breadcrumbs we should do it carefully. We sure as hell don't need another Brazil."

"Has Bradley said anything as to why the hell he's here?" she asked.

"Don't think so. But it must be something here besides work. I mean, there's safer places than Paris to crack banks."

Finally, an exuberant waiter approached the table to take their orders.

"Comment se fait le vin? Bonne?" he asked.

"Oui, très bon," replied Starling and returned her back to the menu. The menu was divided into separate selections for men and women.

"This damn thing is sexist."

"That's the French for you."

After a proper period of deliberation, with too short being rude and too long as being frivolous, Starling began.

"I'll have the _Dublin bay prawns and Seabass_."

"Excellent choice madam."

The waiter then turned to Bond.

"For me: the _Pan fried foie gras, _and_ Fillet of poultry_."

The waiter smiled and followed that with curt bow before scampering off.

"Did we get anything useful from Bradley today?"

"Restaurant bills, a car rental, and a few other things. The car rental might help us."

"In Paris?" she asked. "It would be great if we had his hotel."

"I'm sure he's using an alias for that. But the car may help. With any luck it has a satellite tracker – most of the newer cars do."

Starling nodded approvingly.

"That's why I'm thinking he's here for some kind of occasion or event," Bond went on. "I'm guessing we have a week and no more."

"Well, tomorrow then," said Starling. "Let's bust his arse."

Bond nodded. "Yeah, let's do that – and without losing our own."

:

Pulled from slumber by Email and text notices popping off steadily, Bond tried to hide under a pillow to no avail. Each innocent sounding aural apostrophe grew louder and more obnoxious until he was finally compelled to investigate.

It was Bradley. No doubt his team had been burning the midnight oil. Damnit all to hell, could they at least wait until a proper hour to send all this shite. Putting the phone back on the table, Bond pulled the blinds up enough to investigate. It was a bright and clear morning. Already, pedestrian and automobile traffic clogged the streets. Now even nature was getting into the act, and everyone wanted him up and moving.

Flashes of the night before ran before his eyes. Starling had tread again into her young but storied past. The more he listened the more he realized they had nothing in common. Yet it was amusing and simple fun to hear her go on. He could have continued through another bottle of wine. He was pulled along by her youth and beauty with no desire to get back to business at hand. Once, she bent over to whisper something confidential and let her top fall open. She didn't seem to give a damn. In the old days that gesture might have meant something, but not now. It was a different time and a different place and shit like that meant nothing.

He had to finish this assignment and move on to where ever his destiny called him. A new job or a retirement home, whichever came first. He'd go mad if he stayed around Starling for much longer.

Finally the phone rang loudly, rattling on the table top. It was Starling's number.

"Bond here."

"James – are you awake?"

"I am now."

She chuckled.

"Have you checked your Email?"

"This morning?

"Yeah, this morning," she said through a chuckle. "And the reports from Bradley?"

"Have I read reports from my phone? No, of course not."

"Well, you missed the news – the have him – they picked up Syncilly. And you're right – there was a tracking device in his Citroën. He got into a traffic accident last night and the police ran the wire on him."

"They have him then?" Bond asked, still half asleep.

"Yes, yes. Him and more. Meet me for breakfast in thirty minutes – can you do that?"

"Yeah – thirty minutes – I'll be there," he said and rang off.

:

It took all of the thirty minutes to get it together. Doing most of the drinking as Starling did the talking had left him hungover and tired. He would have guessed they had a couple of days before having to move on Syncilly. Who would have expected him to be dropped in their lap?

Starling was already seated, glued to her phone over coffee. Dressed in a cotton tee and jeans, he thought casual might be her best look yet.

"Good morning," she said when he neared the table.

"Morning. So what's the big news?" Bond motioned to a waitress carrying a stainless steel carafe of coffee.

"The police have Syncilly now. We intercepted the signal from the tracker and gents from the Paris office helped stage the accident. Apparently, he got into a tussle with our lot and someone called the police. The police were suspicious with all the shit in his car and ran the wire on him – bingo."

The waitress returned with the coffee. Bond fidgeted Impatiently while he waited for her to fill his cup and set the table.

"Okay," he said, "what kind of shit?"

"A gun, electronic devices, all kinds of stuff. They went through his phone and found an interesting invitation for Saturday night."

Bond, tested the coffee and immediately put it back down.

"An invitation? What kind of invitation?"

"To a masked-masquerade party!" she said with a smile. "On a French country estate."

"And that affects us – how?"

"All the guests are members of a criminal network of some kind – it's our best lead yet! They don't think Syncilly had a chance to warn anyone that he's detained."

Bond shook his head. "You're not thinking..."

Starling nodded. "Yes… I am. We should go James – it's perfect."

"Perfect – perfect for what? To get us killed?"

Starling pulled a face.

"No! Of course not – it's on a famous country estate. Besides, I've always wanted to go to one of those. Haven't you?"

:

* * *

A/N: Again – much thanks to AmalieNico for comments. Also, deepest grats to all who read, faved, or followed. G.S.


	10. Masquerade

****.****

****Say You Love Me** **

**Chapter 10.**

**Masquerade**

Bond refused to discuss plans with Starling before a hot shower and breakfast; they met an hour later in the courtyard restaurant.

"Wait – wait, just wait a minute. We really need a few facts from Syncilly – don't you think. Otherwise, we're the fox chasing the hounds."

"Sure James, but you really think he'll help us?"

"Look – if he doesn't cooperate we'll hand him back over to the Turks."

"The Turks heh?"

"Yeah. And the hole they put him in won't be first class. It'll make the normal Turkish facilities look like the Ritz Carlton."

"You sure about this?"

"I'd bet on it if I were you."

"Really," she said and managed a smile. "Well, I don't gamble."

Bond shook his head and looked at the Rolex.

"You fancy some more coffee?"

Starling turned up the cup and knocked back the last.

"I'm done."

...

It had been twelve hours since Syncilly encountered French police and been interrogated steadily throughout this time with only a few small breaks. His appearance was growing oily, tired, and haggard.

Bond and Starling looked the man over from behind a one-way mirror.

"He about your size James."

"That's about all we have in common."

"Yes, but with a little hair dye and a mask it just might work."

"And if it doesn't?"

"We'll have to shoot our way out."

"And don't forget the progress we've made – we'll surely lose that."

"Well damnit James – is it worth a try or not?"

Bond snapped around at Starling. Cheeky bitch – but she might be right. Trying to think back when he was at the same position in his career as her, he would have felt the same. But time had tempered that reckless streak – but only slightly.

"Oh, what the hell. Let's talk to him."

...

Regardless of the 'softening up', Syncilly proved damned hard to deal with. The picture Bond produced of torture in some Turkish hellhole did more than anything to persuade him to talk.

"Who's your contact?"

The man was tired but responded.

"There is no contact. That's the beauty of it."

"Then... how will they know who you are?"

"I'm not sure – perhaps by the costume. Interested parties will make themselves known in time. All I know is on the paperwork you found."

"Then why attend?"

"It's a network sir – these people are from all walks of life."

Bond took that to mean all walks of criminal life.

"It says," continued Bond, "that you're to come as admiral Nelson and your date if you have one..."

"...will be Peter Pan."

"Yes," Bond said, drawling the _yes_.

"How many guests – do you know?" asked Starling.

The man shook his head. "Maybe fifty."

"So what's the point of this whole thing?"

The man struggled to think.

"The point?" he said and shook his head. "This is France – why does there have to be a point?"

‡‡‡‡‡

The Château de Cheverny was three hours by automobile from Paris. Starling and Bond decided, for sake of appearances, it would be more civilized to leave out from Orleans, which was fifty eight minutes from the Manor. With clothes for two days they booked rooms in the Hôtel Escale Oceania; a lovely old hotel facing the Loire river.

Meeting Starling in the lobby, Bond drew a number of gawks and gestures while pacing incognito as Admiral Horatio Lord Nelson.

"Cheer up old man – you'll win the next one," piped in one stranger vaguely acquainted with British naval history. Bond tipped the Bicorne politely.

Growing impatient, he looked up to find Peter Pan bouncing down the steps. Stopping short to model, Starling tipped the hat and held her arms outstretched. From the pointed poulaines on her feet to the green Archer's hat topped with a feather, her costume was more or less complete. The less part referred to long bare legs instead of the green leggings.

"You're late Peter – let's catch the car."

The black Mercedes sedan rolled lazily over French countryside. They would take E5 to Blois and pick up D765 to Orleans. The car was sent by Universal Exports; Bond and Starling would take no more chances with unknown drivers and cars.

Bond removed the shiny Bicorne and threw it over the seat next to the driver.

"This is absolutely mental," he began.

"Oh shut up James... and keep your right arm inside your jacket. You know Nelson was missing a right arm."

"And look at you," he fussed. "That kit draws too much attention."

"Isn't that what it's supposed to do."

"Peter Pan wore trousers – he didn't go bare assed across the countryside."

"And neither do I – I have pants on."

"Underneath the shirt – but you've no trousers."

"Peter Pan didn't wear trousers."

"He wore green leggings then."

"This costume is perfectly acceptable, with or without leggings."

Bond sighed and let the matter drop, but he had uneasy feelings about Starling going bare-legged to the Masquerade. Legs like those drew too much attention, and he had a strong feeling against drawing unnecessary attention when surrounded by the enemy.

"How much longer," Bond asked the driver.

"The roads are not so good sir and the Château de Cheverny is in the country."

"Well, we don't need to draw futher attention to ourselves by being late," he said and glanced at Starling's costume.

The conversation turned as chilly as the evening air. Almost out of sunlight the Mercedes pulled into the long drive into the Château. Guests were mingling aimlessly as they funneled toward the front door.

Bond adjusted the Bicorne and removed his naval cutlass from the boot.

"Don't forget your mask," Starling reminded him as she disappeared under the _Columbina_ she pulled over her eyes.

"Damn." Bond reached back into the car for the mask. Just in case, and almost assuming, Syncilly had lied about being recognized Bond had opted for a full cover _Volto_.

They left the safe confines of the car and proceeded toward the swarm at the door. Gravel crunched under foot as the two agents neared the horde of revelers. Acting the proper escort, Bond reached gingerly for Starling's waist. She shot him an unwelcome glance.

"You're my date – remember?" he defended.

She mumbled something under her breath but then acquiesced to accept his touch.

Standing in a queue that neared the welcoming table, they watched King Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette receive their name-tags after presenting the coded invitation notice. Starling shot Bond a glance that said, _surely you didn't forget the invitation?_

Rummaging through the indigo blue dress-coat, Bond produced the invitation and displayed it as if produced by a feat of magic. Relief and then a show of mock disgust washed over Starling face at Bond's show of levity.

A masked female, with bushy red hair flowing around the sides of her Columbina mask, took Bond's invitation. After the perusing the contents she smiled and filed it away in a gold-plated box.

"Ah, so glad you could make it Admiral," she greeted, and then smiled at Starling. "And the event wouldn't be complete without Peter Pan."

A young assistant to the redhead, costumed as a clown, pinned a small name-tag to Bond and Starling's chest that read _Lord Nelson_ and _Peter Pan_.

With no further instructions, Starling and Bond wandered into the Château and looked to mingle with the other guests. There was no great hall like many English castles, but then the Château would only be considered a castle to the French. Ornate and lavish, the huge manor was more or less divided into manageable apartments.

Through a small foyer, they followed the murmuring crowd into the bowels of the manor. Your choice of language was indicated by your character. Most of the guests were French, but Bond's French was spotty at best.

"Do you speak French?" he whispered to Starling.

"No, do you?"

"How about Italian?"

"Nope."

"Spanish?"

"Bingo."

"Good, then keep your eye out for anything that smacks of Spain."

"Over there!"

"What?"

Starling pointed with her eyes across the room.

"On his cloak – isn't that the Spanish coat of arms?"

"Yes, I do believe it is," Bond replied dryly.

"You believe?" she asked, testingly.

"Yes – the four quarters of Castile, the argent lion of Leon, the pallets of Aragon, and the eight-pointed star of Navarre."

"And isn't that the sword of Sancho IV?"

Bond looked astonished. "Yes, I think it is."

"Very good then – shall we nudge in and chat a bit?"

Bond silently complied. Starling took the lead and moved excitedly toward the Spaniard of whom they guessed to be Sancho IV. Normally Starling moved with an ethereal lightness from excessive athleticism, but now she was almost bouncing.

Before crossing the room, a tall man, perhaps a Master at Arms, touched the Spaniard on the shoulder. There was a brief show of recognition and the two quickly disappeared down a corridor.

"Hmm. Called to duty I suppose," said Bond.

"Do you think that's how it works – they simply call us in?"

"It just might be that simple. We can only wait and see."

"That's no fun – what say we talk to Colonel Mustard over there."

"And you're sure that's colonel Mustard?"

"Let's find out," said Starling and grabbed Bond by his gold embroidered sleeve.

Colonel Mustard and a few unidentifiable guest were queued up for punch. An attractive server costumed as an Egyptian pythoness was dipping a glass ladle into a container that resembled a bowl of Waterford crystal, half the size of Ireland.

With his cup full Mustard turned away and was nearly facing Starling and Bond. He was wearing a shorter nosed version of the _Pantalone__under_ with the pith helmet. A shock of straw colored whiskers were visible from under the bottom of the mask.

"I say old man; looking for Mr. Green?" asked Bond.

The man was roused to take of notice of Bond and his costume.

"Ah, Admiral," be began. "To hell with Mr. Green, it's Miss Scarlett I'm looking for."

"Understandable sentiments sir. Do you play here often?"

"My first time sir; how about you?"

"Ours as well," Bond replied and then glanced at Starling. "Let me introduce Peter Pan."

Colonel Mustard canted his masked head and eyed Starling up and down.

"So very pleased to meet you," said Mustard and offered his hand.

"The same sir," replied Starling but refused the offer. It seemed her great enthusiasm for masquerade was now somewhat diminished.

"What on earth is this all about; do you know sir?" asked Bond with theatrics.

"I'm sure our host will explain that sir."

"Our host – have you met him?"

"Our host? Oh, no sir. He'll come for you – in good time."

"Oh, I see," said Bond. "Well what in the hell are we to do in the mean time?"

"Enjoy the punch," said Mustard and lifted his cup in salutation. "Smooth sailing good fellow." With one last protracted look at Starling Mustard mingled away into swarm of guests.

"Well, so much for that," complained Starling.

Bond agreed in short abrupt nods.

"You've could have been a bit more friendly you know."

Starling looked away.

"Let's move on – things are a little dead in here," she fired back.

Reluctantly, Bond followed Starling into the armory room. Adorning the walls were halberds, axes, pikes, swords, lances, and shields.

"Now that's what I'm talking about." Starling unhitched a security rope to get to the armaments on the wall.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm tired of waiting. Maybe this will get an audience," she said and unhooked a spiked halberd from it's resting place.

"Or maybe thrown out on our head," countered Bond.

"Defend yourself sir," challenged Starling, "or I'll run you through."

"As you wish swabby."

Bond unsheathed the naval cutlass and went to a proper guard. Starling feigned a few, easy to parry, attacks, which Bond gently parried.

"Prepare to die," threatened Bond.

"Never by you sir. You'll never be the undoing of Peter Pan." Starling jumped over the red velvet covered security rope and commenced an attack in earnest. Surprised at her boldness, Bond retreated. The guests were backing away to give the combatants proper ground in which to fight.

"That is enough!" boomed a stern, deep voice behind them.

Bringing and end to their play fighting, Bond and Starling turned to look for the source of interruption. It was the same masked man that called the Spaniard away. Frozen for a few moments, Starling reluctantly returned the halberd to the wall. Bond sheathed the cutlass and approached the tall figure.

"Come this way," the man instructed. "Both of you." Bond waited until Starling was back across the security rope and then resumed the role of escort as they followed the tall figure down a dimly lit corridor. Pressing his fingers gently into her side, he could feel tension he didn't detect before.

Stopping at an equally stern looking door, the masked man knocked once, then twice. He was about to knock again when the latch could be heard to release from the other side.

The man stood in the doorway only long enough to complete a short recognition and back away. He motioned for Bond and Starling.

"You will have refreshments old man?" quipped Bond as he waited for Starling to enter.

"Watch your head," he snapped.

A sequence of naked light bulbs hung from a wire over a flight of stone stairs. The air immediately changed, becoming damp and musty, as they descended into the bowels of the Château. The big man parked them in a dark anteroom.

"Wait here."

Moments later, he returned, and they entered a large archaic looking apartment with low ceilings. In the center of the room sat a ceremonial table of some kind. Sitting at the table was a board of three men, looking through a seven branched candelabra.

They stood there for a few uncomfortable moments until Bond could stand the silence no longer.

"Are you sure we're in the right place old man," he said, addressing the tall escort.

"You're in the right place mister Bond – and the quips will do you no good here," responded the center man at the table.

"There must be some kind of mistake," Bond persisted.

"Take off their masks."

With that, the tall escort standing behind the pair reached first around Starling and yanked off the mask. He knocked off Bond's Admiral's Bicorne and pulled off his mask in turn.

"You should be more careful with that," Bond snapped and replaced his hat.

"It's you that should be more careful mister Bond. It was very bold of you coming here – and what did you expect to find?"

"I don't know this Bond chap you keep referring to. My name is Andrei Syncilly, and I have an invitation to this event, whatever it is."

"You're lying and we know it Mister Bond."

Bond at last dropped the banter. A wave of solemnity swept across his face.

"Well, let the girl go – I hardly know her and she has no part in this."

"Again you're lying Mister Bond. We know better."

"You know nothing. My name is Andrei Syncilly – and you've never seen me before. Now let the girl go and we'll talk."

"You simply don't know who you're dealing with mister Bond. You are Bond. James Bond – British intelligence. And this girl you said doesn't know anything – she's MI6. Just like you."

"And just how do you assume to know all this?"

"It was your mistake mister Bond. It's true we've never actually seen Syncilly. He's successfully avoided cameras his whole life. But he has no passion for women, and your friend here distinctively female. It is men that Syncilly prefers – and Peter Pan was just the right character for the men of his liking."

There was an immediate chuckle around the room.

"We immediately concentrated our efforts on your man Bradley. We have eyes into every government computer system in the world. It only took a few minutes to confirm our suspicions."

"And just what do you plan to do," Bond asked with a trace of nerves beginning to show through the rough exterior.

"It's what you plan to do that matters mister Bond. How much you tell us will determine how long you and your girlfriend will live."

"You're full of shit," Bond spat angrily.

The big man stepped forward.

"You'll come with us mister Bond. And don't worry about your girlfriend – we'll take good care of her."

The big man moved between them and the stairs. The two men on the side began to reach for something in their costume.

Starling had heard enough. With a quick spin on one heel she put a lightning fast kick in the solar plexus of the big guy between them. Immediately he doubled over and Bond put a knee to his head.

"RUN." Starling sprinted up the steps. Bond turned and kicked the table up and into the faces of all three men and spun around to watch her safely disappear up the steps.

Sprinting as fast as aged legs would carry him, he reached the top of the steps. The man guarding the door was laying on the floor with what looked like a broken neck. More of Starling's Taekwondo kicks, he thought.

Quickly moving through the crowd, Bond drew frightened stares from blank faces. He paused at the front door to look over the grounds. There was no sign of the greeting table and no sign of Starling. There was a road parallel to one boundary of the estate and dense woods on the opposite side. The road would probably lead to trouble before help. Starling would have elected to keep in the woods, he thought.

He was about to take a step into the grass when he felt an explosion to the back of his head. He went spiraling through a galaxy of stars into a black hole. Tumbling through a tunnel of darkness, he came to rest where everything was still and dark.

‡‡‡‡‡

There were voices around him but he couldn't make them out. He was in a nether world with no clear way out. There were more mumblings and then a bucket of water in the face pulled him screaming from the nether world and back to reality.

"Wake up mister Bond – are you awake?"

Bond answered with a nod – his vision was double and it was impossible to tell how many were looking over him.

"You're going to talk Bond or we're going to beat you. Do you understand this?"

"Yes."

"Who were you looking for?"

"Fuck you," he managed.

"Strip his clothes off – tie him to the table – face down."

He could feel being manhandled and he struggled to resist. His vision cleared and he saw four men, two of whom were ripping off his shirt and trousers. His shorts quickly followed before he was tied naked to a narrow wooden bench, face down.

They waved a carpet beater in his face. This drew a sicking fear from the first time he was captured. Would they know how he was tortured – had they read the computer records? He felt a sharp slap and an intense stinging along his back. They didn't know.

The questions and the slapping continued. There was no news of Starling. Had she made good on her escape. Something inside told him she had made it. But at that very moment he heard a sound that almost made him puke. It was the sound of several dozen hounds. They were baying loudly and anxious to get to the hunt.

"Ah yes mister Bond – the hounds, the estate has fine hunting dogs, they will find your friend. It won't be long now. Luckily they haven't been fed yet. Your friend killed one of our ours – now the dogs will eat one of yours."

"You're all going to die before this is over," Bond threatened, angrily.

The man laughed.

"Do you think so mister Bond. You still don't know who we are do you?"

Wearily, Bond managed to shake his head.

"We represent a body of like minds – the best minds in the world and all devoted to crime – _International Crime Enterprises_. Or just _Ice_ as we like to call ourselves. Shame you won't live long enough to get to know us. Now: it's time for you to tell us a few things."

The beating continued until well into the night. At one time Bond could hear the dogs. He heard them close in on the victim and baying took on the sounds of an evil frenzy. He heard a small caliber handgun. It would have been Starling's Beretta sub-compact. He felt sick to his stomach when the sounds stopped. Even though the room resembled a dungeon, he realized that there must be high open windows along the side of the wall.

Besides the sounds, he could smell the night air. It was a calling to him to go on. When the men tired of swinging the carpet beater, they called it a night and left him alone with a single candle standing alone to fight the darkness.

His clothes and the Bicorne hat were laying in a pile at his feet. If he could only turn the bench over he might be able to get his hands on the hat. There was a small pen knife hidden in the hat crevice.

He rocked the bench as hard as his remaining strength would allow him. The legs were screwed to the floor and it took hours to break them loose. When the bench finally snapped loose, one leg remained fastened to the floor. He was able to spin the bench around the fastened led until the Bicorn was finally in his hands.

His wrists and ankles were skinned bloody by the ropes. With quick work the penknife cut through the ropes and he was free from the bench. The morning light was trying to come up and he had precious little time. Managing with the torn shirt and trousers, he had the midnight blue jacket on for camouflage.

The overhead windows were at the end of the room. Freeing the last leg of the bench and propping it on end against the wall, he was able to use it as a ladder to reach the window. His back was hurting in waves and stabbing spasms. With his last ounce of strength his could feel the end of the window against his fingertips as he stretched to reach the sill and pull himself out.

The night air was cool and welcome. He would take his chances by the road. With any luck the dogs were still running in the opposite direction.

:

* * *

A/N: This was a tough one, but fun to write. A big thanks for reading.


	11. Dogs Days

****.****

****Say You Love Me** **

**Chapter 11.**

**Dog Days**

With a water blue sky in the east, Bond used the last minutes of dim light to make toward the Avenue du Château or D102. Already there were yellow headlights , somewhat dimmed by the first light of morning, shining on the boundary line of the estate. He wondered if they would turn onto the long drive to the estate, but they continued peacefully along the French countryside.

Stepping out of the shadows, Bond left the security of stone walls and began to cross the open grounds between him and the road. He could only hope the Manor was fast asleep on this clear morning. With pain still throbbing all along his back, he trotted toward the tree-line that insulated the road from the estate. There were no sounds of danger behind him.

Could the hounds be up and to the post? Would they be eager to begin the hunt? Would they be ready for breakfast at this hour? The sounds of their success the night before still made his stomach wretch. Unable to look behind him, his dread and fear worsened as he neared the safety of the tree-line. Other than the pen knife he had no weapons. The Walther had not been laying among the pile of clothes.

Tantalizing close now – the tree-line was just in sight. Could he make it? With a final sprint, which sent spasms of pain along his back, Bond reached the safety of the thick copse that ran along D102. Here a decision would have to be made. Should he go north back toward Orléans? All the houses and the potential for help lay in this direction. But they would certainly expect this and have every available man scouring the road and nearby houses.

What about south? Without going into any great detail, he'd studied the lay of the land around the Château before making the trip. There wasn't much on the road south except more road and more trees on either side. It was just possible he could put quite a bit of distance between them before they realized his southerly route. The only problem is that going south would take one deeper into lonely French countryside. But better than being eaten by the dogs.

Taking in a deep breath and exhaling slowly, Bond turned straight away to the south. He swapped sides of the road when the tree line ended on one side and began on another. Forced to crawl over open fields, his spirits and safety depended on the trees.

It was mid-morning before he heard the baying of the hounds. Perfectly still, Bond listened for which direction they were headed. If it was north, the cacophony of howls and baying would diminish with the distance between them. For ten minutes, the distance between Bond and the hounds was definitely growing apart, then the mistake must have been realized as the dogs had turned south. He could tell from the sound as soon as they turned. Then to his horror, they were growing closer.

The dogs were still a good distance away, but he picked up the pace, traveling south along the tree-lines. When there was no cars, he changed to the other side of the road. He calculated he had to be far from away estate property now. How far would they continue off the grounds?

By mid-day he had changed sides of the road several times to throw off the scent. The dogs were closing the distance, but if he could keep it up he might hold out until nightfall. But nightfall would buy him nothing. Keeping the dark blue jacket for camouflage, he sweated profusely and the salt from sweat burned the open wounds along his back.

By mid-afternoon he neared a small rise where he could see the road clearly for a mile or so. Sick with the smell of death, it was odd that the sight was still so beautiful. There were no houses in sight and he was nearly out of gas. He paused to rest and watch the road. The dogs were getting closer and he was near exhaustion. Dehydrated and sick from his injuries, he would have to take a chance.

When an innocent looking traveler appeared a kilometer away, he decided to chance it. It was traveling south and safely away from Orléans. They might be stopping cars headed to Orléans. The blood soaked shirt would be an excellent banner. He took off the admiral's jacket and tossed it aside. With one leap he was into the road in the path of the car, waving his arms desperately.

Carrying only a wide-eyed driver, the car slowed to a stop.

‡‡‡‡‡

Bond wallowed in bed for days. Too drugged to enter reality, his dreams were of dogs, hot on the trail, and miles of empty French countryside. The images of Starling in the Peter Pan kit haunted his sleep. Resting mostly on his stomach, his back and arse required the bandages changed every few hours.

It was five days later before the drugs were tapered off. Like the alcoholic who wakes from a binge, he was angry and restless. He had spoken only briefly with investigators before being 'treated' for his injuries. Finally, with his backside covered with an over sized Elastoplast as big as _Page 3,_ he was released from the hospital.

He was alone in his flat when M paid the first visit. Bond feared he was surely to get the 'can' after this one. M was as usual his formal self. This could only mean the visit was of a business nature.

"No thanks," he replied to Bond's offer of a drink.

"I know you're here to relieve me sir, but before you do, please hear me out..."

"Wait Bond – you don't have to..."

"I'm afraid I do sir. I've never begged you before, but I'm begging now..."

"James, just wait," instructed M and raised a hand. "I'm not here to make you redundant."

"You're not?"

"No, and you can stop beating yourself up for Starling's death."

"Who said I was doing that?"

"Oh, come now man. I've read the hospital reports. You've been at it for days."

"Sir..." Bond tried to interrupt.

"She's not dead Bond – or at least we don't think she is."

"Sir, I would like to believe that. Of all people I would like to believe that – but I heard the dogs."

"Look, we found the very spot where she encountered the dogs. The shell casings from the Beretta compact were just a few yards from a tree – a climbable tree. At the base of the tree were the tattered remains of the costume jacket she wore. There was no blood on the jacket or what was left of it."

"So she tossed them the jacket?"

M nodded. "We think she did."

Bond inhaled a deep breath of fresh air. The disposition on his face suddenly brightened.

"That's very encouraging sir."

"Isn't it. So… when you get tired of feeling sorry for yourself we'll have you back to work. We need to find her quickly. We think her chances will depend on that."

"I'll be ready in a few minutes sir," Bond said and began to rise.

"Come by and finish the report then, but… your doctors will have to clear you for duty Bond."

Bond ran his finger through hair streaked with grey.

"Of course sir," Bond lied through his teeth.

‡‡‡‡‡

Bond put together a report on _International Crime Enterprises, _with what little he knew_. _For days he had searched his mind for any detail of that night that might help. There was so little to go on. The inflections of the speakers voices – he had cataloged them all in his mind. He just didn't know if he'd ever run into them again.

What he didn't write was the remarks concerning Bradley. Bradley knew something and Bond was damned determined to find out what it was.

Normally the door to Bradley's office was open, but today he was chewing on one of his staff and the door was closed. Bond took the uncomfortable excuse of a chair outside his office. Bradley could see him waiting through the glass and would occasionally glance at Bond.

Fuck it, thought Bond. This kid's arse chewing could wait. He got up and opened the door to Bradley's office. The young officer spun around, surprised to see Bond standing in the door frame stoically. Bradley looked perturbed.

"Bond – can't you see, I have business going on here."

Bond paid no attention to Bradley. Instead, he aimed his attention at the junior staff officer.

"Get out," he instructed and motioned to the young man with this thumb. The junior officer looked to Bradley for direction and Bradley motioned for him to leave.

"Now see here Bond – just where the hell do you get off – coming into my office like that."

"I need some answers."

"Well, that's no way to get them."

"You're mixed up in this somehow. I didn't include that in my report – so how do you want to deal with this Bradley?"

"Just what the fuck do you mean?"

"It means I better get some answers," demanded Bond and pulled a new Walther from a waistband holster.

"You wouldn't dare."

"Oh yeah – my career's about over. Might as well go out by getting rid of a scumbag like you."

"Alright Bond – now listen here – you're way out of line on this. You'll need clearance for this – and you don't have it."

"M has given me complete clearance on this case."

"It goes a bit further than M old man; all the way to the PM. But since I've a gun at my head I'll let you in on this, besides it about on M's level."

Bond waited for the information that Bradley left hanging in the air.

"Give it up – what is it?"

"We've known for some time that this _Shaggy Dog_ had penetrated our outer securities. We knew it, but it's just the way we have to play it. A hard shell defense system will never do. They'll keep at it till they break you – you see. It's a good plan really. They think they've got you but they don't. Of course like all good plans it has it little drawbacks."

"Good plan, hell they knew who we were within minutes. And Starling being eaten by dogs is no little drawback," Bond said and pointed gun for emphasis.

"Don't wave that G'damned thing at me. Besides Bond – you knew when you signed up for this job that you were dispensable. The safety and security of the country comes first – and sometimes sacrifices have to be made."

"That's easy to say from where you sit."

"I'm sorry Bond, but that's about it. You'll have to go to M if you want more."

Bond stood resolutely, wondering if he should shoot the man now or wait till later. He could still see their covered faces, hear the muffled voices from the behind the gilt masks. The sounds of the dogs baying was still rolling over the landscapes in his mind. He could feel his grip tighten on the Walther. He'd had about enough of this shit. Bradley was little more than a paid double with a covert directive of his own design. What would he get for this, killing the man. He'd have to plead temporary insanity of course. Perspiration began to gather in drops to glisten on Bradley's forehead. The silence had an acrid and unknown edge to it.

"Look Bond, I'm sorry about Starling, but they don't think she'd dead you know."

Still, Bond appeared frozen in the doorway, as if contemplating the horrible.

Bradley's hand began to creep under the desk.

"If you move your hand again I'll shoot you," ordered Bond as he raised the Walther. "Give me something G'damnit or I'll kill you now."

"I can't Bond."

Bond raised the Walther and rolled his thumb over the hammer until it cocked with an audible click.

"It's my bet," began Bond, "that M didn't know about all of this. And I don't think he'll hold this against me," he finished and aimed the gun at Bradley's forehead.

Finally the man cracked.

"Okay – okay damnit. I'll give you what you need. Just get that gun out of my face."

Bond lowered his aim on Bradley's forehead, but in no way changed his posture or expression.

"What?"

Bradley threw his hands up. "I've got to get something out of my desk." Bond nodded.

Still shaking, he reached into his desk and extracted a dozen sheets of fresh A-4 held together with a gunmetal colored binder. He unclipped the binder and extracted the first sheet.

"This is a transcript we hacked from the French Intelligence. It's their interrogation of Syncilly after they picked him up. I guess they were going to give it to us – after they had expunged all the useful information."

Bradley took a felt-tip highlighter, shaded a couple of lines and gave the sheet to Bond.

"I was going to give to M – but you can have first dibs," he said and gingerly handed the document to Bond.

"Le Chiffre? I thought he was into Financing terrorists."

"The economy has been shit for last few years Bond. Like most he's likely headed toward greener pastures just like everyone else."

"You sure he's involved with this?"

"Syncilly was due to meet up with him right after the masquerade."

"Okay, but how the hell do I find him?"

"The second page, Bond," he replied with disgust.

Bond turned the page and read the line. His jaw went slack and the arm holding the report fell to his side.

"You won't be telling M you showed me this?"

"Of course not – I'd lose my job."

Bond slid the report back on Bradley's desk.

"Good, I'll do what I can do," he said and started out.

"Bond," called Bradley.

Bond stopped in the doorway.

"You wouldn't really have shot me would you?"

Without a reply or expression of any kind, Bond turns his back on the Intelligence officer and limps away. He re-holsters the weapon as if putting away an ink pen.

‡‡‡‡‡

It was a hollow and chilly feeling. He'd gambled there against Le Chiffre with Vesper at his side and she had died weeks later. Then Traci, he'd met her there as well. And in little more than a months time she was dead too.

There was so many names for it: bad Karma, bad Ju Ju, bad luck. Whatever you want to call it, it was something to stay away from – something to lock away in your mind and never go back to. But he was going back. He had to go back if he going to get back on the trail.

With raw wounds still on his back, he'd never be cleared for duty. But then what M didn't know couldn't hurt M – unless he got caught – unless he cocked up another engagement. In that case, he better be sure he got himself killed.

He pushed past the door labeled 'Universal Exports'. Moneypenny was frazzled this morning with papers and phone calls. Her frown turned to a smile as soon as she saw Bond. She raised an index finger to plead for a moment of time.

"James!," she said at last. "So good to see you back."

"Well, it's good to see you Penny. Is the old man available this morning."

Her smiling face turned to a suspicious glare. She still hadn't got over the last time he used her to deliver his resignation.

"I'll just need a word dear – for a little R and R – so be a good girl and ring him, will you?"

Moneypenny made the call – short and to the point. She put down the receiver with a smile.

"Thanks," he said, and pushed through the door to M's office.

Bond always stiffened a little when entering M's office. Whether called in on official business, a dangerous assignment, or asking for a little time off for Holiday, it was always the same. The old espionage wizard was perusing some papers on his desk under a small cloud of pipe smoke. The whole scene was illuminated by a small funnel of light from the green bankers lamp.

He put the pipe on a cradle and eyed Bond suspiciously.

"Morning double O seven."

"Good morning sir."

"What's on your mind Bond?"

Bond dipped his head apologetically. It was all part of the attempted ruse.

"It's time off sir. I'd like a little R and R to get over this injury. I think it'll help."

M nodded deeply and then abruptly froze.

"Normally I'd say yes – but it's not like you Bond. I thought you'd be chomping at the bit to get back on duty."

"Of course sir – I am eager to get back, but I just can't stand sitting idle. I thought a little gaming would help get my mind off things."

M raised a brow. "Hm, a little gaming huh? Back to your old stomping grounds at Casino Royale?"

"Yes, something like that sir," he replied with a smile that was a touch too artificial.

"I suppose that makes sense – but I would have thought you'd have made inquiries about Starling?"

"Of course sir. Has anything turned up?"

M didn't answer. He shook his head instead.

"She was a lovely girl. I just thought maybe..."

"Yes sir. She is a lovely girl. And we'll find the bastards that have her." This time there was no artificial smile – only a steely expression was reflected in Bond's face.

M nodded. "That's what I expected to hear – especially from you."

"Yes sir."

"Well, stay in touch Bond. We'll expect to hear from you in a couple of weeks?"

"A couple of weeks should do fine," Bond replied, a little too cheerily.

"Well – good luck Bond, and don't lose your retirement at the gaming tables."

Bond rose from the chair. Only with his hand on the door handle did he pause to look back.

"Thank you sir."

He was through the first door and nearly out the second.

"Double O seven, get back here."

Stunned, Bond turned to face the old man.

"You can cut out that crap about the R and R."

"Sir?" asked Bond with best dumbfounded look he could muster.

"Don't take me for the fool Bond. You've managed to find a lead on Starling. Now get your arse back here in two weeks to be properly cleared for duty. Do I make myself clear."

Bond felt ashamed. It no doubt showed all over his face.

"Perfectly clear sir – two weeks."

:

* * *

A/N: Okay,I have to apologize for re-using the character of Le Chiffre. I know, he was offed in Casino Royale but I just couldn't help myself from using him again. The perfect name for the perfect villain.

Thanks for comments from AmalieNico and to all who read, followed, or faved. :)


	12. Royale-Les-Eaux

****Say You Love Me** **

**Chapter 12.**

**Royale-Les-Eaux**

Motoring along N-1, through the forests between Abbeville and Montreuil, Bond was chasing a ghost.

Glued to the road, seventy five yards ahead of him, was a silver Lancia Spyder and he couldn't get closer. He had tried years ago to catch the Lancia in the blower Bentley but couldn't manage the tight turns with the rigid undercarriage. Today it was an Aston Martin DBS. It was much quicker through the turns, but the results were no different. Not even twelve turbocharged cylinders could bring him closer to the Spyder. Through a long stretch, he pushed hard on the pedal; 120, 140, and the big V12 howled like a banshee at 160.

But now the dream was getting dangerous. The S bends were coming up and he wasn't ready to die – not yet; besides, he knew the Lancia Spyder was only a figment of his imagination, and the pretty girl driving it had been gone for over a decade.

Bond throttled down the DBS, and with one more racing change he was almost prepared to handle the tricky S bends ahead. With delicate braking before the first turn, he used the throttle to help push the rear-end around the first turn and again on the second. Slowly the adrenaline ebbed away and he took a relaxing deep breath. He accelerated coming out of the turns, keeping his cruising speed to a comfortable one hundred.

There were too many ghosts on the road to Royale-les-Eaux and Bond worried that maybe he too was becoming a thing of the past. He slipped in and out of melancholy with the thought of all of them, Vesper, Traci, and now more than likely, Starling too. M was correct to suggest she was still alive and Bond was eager to hear it. Lord knows he would fight hard to find her. But if she _had_ been captured it would be unlikely they'd let her live for long. No doubt they would try and torture information out of her. After they had acquired all they could get they would attempt to work out a trade. It had been nearly two weeks now, and still no news. Each day with no news meant her survival would be less likely.

It had been rumored for years Le Chiffre was still alive. According to some, Le Chiffre's death had been staged. Shot in the head with a heavy rubber bullet, the man appeared for all the world to be dead. The trouble with Bond witnessing the event was that he'd been beaten and tortured and his judgment compromised. Le Chiffre's limp body had been immediately dragged from the room and Bond had never been the wiser.

According to the stories, Le Chiffre was severely punished for his incompetence. To make amends, he submitted to plastic surgeries to alter his appearance. After being re-trained and re-tooled, he vanished into the underworld where he rarely came out, except for the occasional card game if the stakes were right.

Over the weekend, the Royale would host the 'clôture annuelle' and it was sure to attract a challenging bevy of big players. Bond would have to get there early and win his way into the final games. Le Chiffre, if he attended at all, would arrive late and buy his way in with a pot full of money.

Coming up were the familiar properties, which stood handsomely as a welcome facade for visitors to the Casino. Tall pines and beeches lined the narrow roads that was nearly as old as the coastline itself. Finally he entered a lime white mixture of sea shell and gravel pavement that formed the long sweep in front of the _Grand Hotel_. It had been the _Hotel Splendide_ when he and Vesper first discovered this little hideaway. Most of the hotel appeared completely unchanged; only the ownership and name were different now. He wondered what else might have changed.

Pulling in front a line automobiles worth more than the GDP of some small countries, he pulled up short of the over-sized bellmen. With a release inside the car, Bond popped open the boot. Another man, probably the bagagiste, jumped to his assistance. They took out two bags and Bond quickly closed the boot as the man disappeared inside with the bags in tow.

Bond traded the parking receipt for the valet key and started for the door. He stopped short and turned toward the bellman.

"Careful with the clutch – it's all or nothing," Bond instructed and then followed his baggage.

"Of course sir – thanks," he said, eyeing the Aston Martin enviously.

Bond entered the huge lobby; a large open affair showcasing an abundance of wood with gilt ceilings extending to the second floor. There was a familiar blast of cool sea air just past the desk that Bond remembered at once. The bar had huge glass doors open to the sea. Past the double glass doors was an inviting terrace. It was just the way he remembered it from his first drive there, so many years ago. The sun that day had beat down on the open Bentley. A cold drink at the bar had been just the ticket before a shower and dinner.

The air conditioned Aston Martin had not been as uncomfortable as the open Bentley but an ice cold drink would still do well. Bond found a seat on the terrace with a view of the sea and his back to wall. Before he could get his tender back adjusted in the wicker chair a young waiter bounced up.

"Care for a drink sir?" the young man asked. His enthusiasm was a little bit surprising but the summer staff and crew were often well tipped and worked convenient hours. A few weeks of labor in a beautiful summer job and he'd be happily off to university in the autumn.

"Yes, please. What do you have in wine – no wait." It was too early for a martini, but what hell. "Three measures of Gordon's, one of Vodka, a half measure of Lillet and a thin slice of lemon peel."

The young man looked at him rather inquisitively and started off.

"Oh," he said, stopping the waiter. "Shaken, not stirred."

Part of the lovely sea-side view included a woman sitting with a male accomplice at the edge of the terrace. She didn't have the advantages of youth on her side but she damn well made the best of it. Mouse brown hair, the outer layer lightened to almost blonde by the sun, was cut above the shoulder with a fringe. She wore a cream colored frock that buttoned from the sternum down to the hem. The straight cut dress was gathered at the waist with a canvas belt.

Athletic and tanned, she obviously played some sort of sport and probably tennis. But the legs were the exclamation point. Long and athletic calves with race-boat gams, they were accentuated in high-heels. The man didn't look like a husband or fiance. Maybe she would be staying through the weekend, perhaps a player herself.

The drink was excellent. Bond sat dreamily, watching the frothy white tips of the sea turn orange with the setting sun. He enjoyed pleasant memories as they swam through his mind along with the ice cold martini.

‡‡‡‡‡

After an excellent meal at a favorite French restaurant, followed by a drink at a local bar, Bond called it a night and ventured back to the Hotel. It had been a long drive and the following day would be a long one. The walk back to his room took him close by the waterway and the Royale river. Thoughts of the girl on the terrace entertained and puzzled him. It did much to wash away the dyspeptic mood that had been hanging around for so many weeks.

Back in the room, with the windows open, the sound and sweet smell of the sea put him into a deep and relaxed sleep. With his back almost healed, it was the best he'd slept since that bit of bad business at Cheverny.

But by morning it had all changed; the brief holiday was over, or it would be the moment he stepped up to the gaming tables.

He had no idea how Le Chiffre would look after the years and the surgeries had altered the face. This made the situation all the more dangerous. He would have to concentrate on his gaming. He had only ten thousand Euros to get started and he would have to triple that in a few days. This was imperative if he wanted any chance at the big tables where he would most likely find Le Chiffre.

On top of that he had to watch everything around him. Le Chiffre might try and have him killed without the two of them ever meeting face to face. If it wasn't the only lead to find Starling, he would normally pass on this kind of risk. And he couldn't cock it up – M would surely make him redundant if he did.

How high had Le Chiffre climbed in this strange organization? In a boardroom consisting only of criminals he could envision Le Chiffre at the top. Would it be high enough to matter? Well it didn't matter, he finally decided. After all these years they had crossed paths again. Whatever went wrong so many years ago could be rectified. He would get the information he needed then put an end to this business. This time Bond would be holding the gun. This time there would be no rubber bullet.

:

* * *

A/N: Originally this chapter was to include the gaming at Casino Royale. However, Bond's mood changes between this short chapter and the next, so I thought I'd break them up.

Thanks so much for reading, and for the new favs and follows.

Note: Kina Lillet, as it was referred to in the books and films is no longer available today. Lillet blanc(or just Lillet), a slightly darker version, is. 'Cocchi Americano' is said by some to be the closest equivalent, but the author has never tried it.

Note2: In the film, Casino Royale was in Montenegro. Briefly considered this setting since the stories are under the category of 'movie'. However, Royale-Les-Eaux is more interesting I think, and also used in the film, On Her Majesty's Secret Service.


	13. Baccarat

****Say You Love Me** **

**Chapter 13.**

**Baccarat**

You could almost smell it, that redolent mixture of sweat, money, and the greed to win it. It was a unique but vaguely similar smell that all the big casinos had. The _Casino de Monte Carlo_ had it. The _Claremont Club_ in London had it. It was the same in the _Bellagio_ in Vegas and _Casino Royale_ had it; and it hit you coming in the door.

"Good morning sir," greeted the burly doorman.

"Good morning," echoed Bond.

Up until now, Bond had his doubts about running into Le Chiffre; surely Divengy's arrest had been spotted, and it was likely the incident would spook Le Chiffre. But as soon as he entered the casino his mood lifted. The big players, the 'Whales' as they were called, would be here, and Bond could almost feel the pull – and certainly Le Chiffre would be a whale.

The game would be Baccarat. It was the game the big money players from Europe would turn out for. The casino had once hosted big poker tournaments when Texas hold-em was all the rage. But Baccarat had been around for a long time and the game was making a strong comeback in European casinos.

The game was known in many forms: Chemin de fer, Baccarat Banque, the American Punto Banco and versions of mini Baccarat called Super 6 or Punto 2000. The main differences being who could be the bank, and the betting and drawing rules. As with all these variations, the object was to end up with a hand as close to nine as possible.

Bond breezed past the doorman with a nod and announced his intention to play at the concierge desk.

"Good morning Mister Fields," greeted a young brunette. "The entry tables are just past the first doors on your left," she said and pointed with a lithe and supple arm, tanned from the summer sun. 'Mark Fields' would be his moniker for the tournament. It was one he had used several times before and it seemed to suit him well.

Bond smiled and continued on. He had five thousand Euros of his own money to start with. The big tournament, over the weekend, would require thirty five thousand to enter. He would have to win seven times his money for a chance to brush elbows with Le Chiffre.

The room had been arranged for Baccarat with every conceivable square foot of floor space. The distinctive kidney shaped tables were laid out as efficiently as possible. Some players were seated and patiently waiting for play to begin while others paced nervously.

When Bond found his table assignment, he also found the attractive woman he'd spotted on the terrace the day before. Maybe this was good luck – maybe she was good luck. Either way, he happy to take a seat at her table. She looked at him with only polite interest and managed a subtle smile. Bond smiled back but, for the time being, left it at that.

With one quick look about the room, he settled into the comfortable chair and sought to emanate only good Karma. A few more players filed in. Unlike the weekend tournament, 'Dress' for this event was casual. A young man wearing an unzipped hoodie over a Tee, with trainers and a ball cap, was distinctively American. He well embodied the statement that concentration without comfort was damned near impossible.

Bond's nameless new acquaintance was also comfortably fashioned. She wore tight grey spandex leggings with a long cotton top the color of faded crimson. her glove leather flats looked as cozy as bedroom slippers. The pageboy hung heavy and limp; every follicle looked clean and polished. It was difficult to guess her nationality.

An oversized Chinaman wedged through the crowd and plopped down into a seat on Bond's left. He wore a black shirt and trousers that appeared stiff and too tightly woven for the climate. Already, he appeared to be sweating. Bond surmised he would be an early casualty.

Two more, a pair of older and mousey ladies, made it in for a total of six players. That would be thirty thousand at the table. A good start, he thought.

A bell was struck to signal play to begin. A slender croupier, in a white shirt and tie, sauntered over to the table and began the sorting ceremony. After each player shuffled the cards, the player to the croupier's right accepted the bank and began with a bank wager of five hundred Euros.

"Banco", announced mousey lady number one and Bond smiled. Already, the bank was being challenged. In the early goings he would play light and cautious and watch the bloodletting from a safe distance.

‡‡‡‡‡

There was an unspoken language in how baccarat players played the game, and the house could spot inexperience or any irregularity immediately. To begin with, how one approached a table provided the first solid clue. The first lesson learned is that gambling is not grim business so don't treat it as such. It much more resembles a social event. Smile and ask pleasant questions if any at all. Experienced players rarely entered a game in the middle of the shoe, and when one did it was best to look at another player's history card. Players using a system would be recognized in the first few hands.

In addition to pit bosses, and the shift manager, modern casinos used cameras to keep a watchful eye over the customers. The use of such kept the house a well oiled machine and the players seldom gave them much notice, especially when they were winning. All the players received an even share of scrutiny, and right now they were watching Bond.

"You should take a look at this one."

"Who?" asked a bore attendant.

"The gent at 5 – G."

The man flicked a switch and dialed a knob. He was now looking at the same picture as his colleague. He stared at the silver and black luminescent image of Bond for several minutes.

"I don't see anything," he announced at last.

"Yeah, I didn't either."

"Then why the hell did you ask me to look?"

The man shook his head, got up, and looked at his friends monitor.

"The other view," he instructed.

"Oh," he said after a change of perspective. He shook his head. "Still don't get it?"

"Under the armpit – you see it now?"

The man craned his neck a bit.

"Now I see it – a bulge – yeah he's carrying."

"Should we notify security?"

"Yeah, definitely; and those other blokes that's been sniffing around. Should we tell them too?"

* * *

The two grey haired ladies, who could have been school moms in their regular life, played a very aggressive game of baccarat. In spite of solid play, schoolteacher number one was almost out of chips. She was holding the bank with what few resources she had left.

"Banco!" challenged Bond. He'd been coasting along and winning a little here and there, but now saw a chance to go after the bank and eliminate a talented competitor.

The woman dealt the cards with a crisp snap. One for Bond and then one for herself. She glared at him with eyes as grey as the silver hair. She doubled down once more and the croupier swung the long handled paddle to gather up Bond's cards.

Using the Asian peel, Bond curled up the edge of one card to expose both: a heartless queen and a five of diamonds. He could stay put with the five or ask for another. His chances were about even to improve his hand or ruin it. With his hand he motioned for another. The dealer slapped the shoe and threw down another card, face up.

It was a two of spades, and from what the woman could see of Bond's hand she would be compelled to draw another. She did, and it was a worthless Jack. With a nod of polite concession, she pushed what remaining chips she had to the dealer and retired from the table.

The tense moment was over. Bond's smile was returned by several players at the table, including the attractive woman he'd ogled on the terrace. The croupier called for a short break and the table agreed. She immediately bounced up to stretch her lovely legs, and Bond followed the woman to an adjoining room. He was determined to get her name. Several lingered by a table where bottled water, fruit, and nuts were laid out for the players.

"Are you playing the weekend tournament?" he asked as he watched her wrestle to unfasten a plastic cap from her bottle.

"Well, I hope to - if I win enough to enter. And how about you?" she replied in a neutral accent.

"What a coincidence, that's my plans as well."

"It seems we're at cross purposes then – wouldn't you say?" she replied.

"Not particularly – we may be at different tables tomorrow," he rebuffed.

She laughed. "That was a good play back there. I was about to make the call myself."

"Oh excuse me," he feigned and offered a hand. "I'm Mark Fields, by the way."

"Tánger Torre," she replied and accepted his hand. It was warm and dry to the touch. Bond smiled, but couldn't immediately assign her a nationality. He could only guess she'd removed tell-tale accents by travel, and the name appeared to fit like a square peg in a round hole.

"Pleasure..."

"Well it's _nice_ to meet you Mister Fields. Have you been playing this game long?"

Bond paused before the, "Yes."

"I'm relatively new to all of this – but I love it."

"You play very well," he said and lifted one brow.

"You've been watching?"

"Of course."

This drew a smile from Tánger. "We're due back at the table Mister Fields."

‡‡‡‡‡

The two house observers paused over the surveillance screen for a few moments to confirm their suspicions. The man closest to the phone opened a small black book and rang the number on the first page. After a chillingly brief dialogue, he rang off.

"They're a strange lot," he said.

"How did we ever get involved with them?"

"Who knows, and who cares. We don't call the shots around here."

The second man nodded and went back to looking blankly into his video monitor.

A full five minutes passed before the door creaked open. The man stood in the door and paused for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. He moved like an oily fish toward the nearest monitor.

"Is this him?"

"Yes," he answered, obsequiously.

"Can you get me a copy?" he asked, and handed the man a thumb-drive with a over-sized hand as big as a cricket glove.

With a recognizable profile of Bond in the monitor, he snapped a key to capture a still of his likeness. He took the thumb-drive from the giant fist and inserted it into the computer. He was reaching to extract it when the mystery man spoke.

"I'll need another," he barked.

Without a word the operator flicked some keys on the computer and went to another camera. Within a minute, Bond looked up at the dealer and got caught facing the camera. With a faint click, the operator captured another still of his subject.

"That ought to do it," he announced.

The big hand reached out for the thumb-drive. The mystery man pocketed the device and left the room as silently as he came in.

‡‡‡‡‡

By nightfall the tournament crowd was breaking up and the regulars were knocking at the gate to begin play. Bond cashed in his chips and looked around for Tánger Torre but she had disappeared in the swarm.

It was time to wash away the sweat and grime of a days work under a hot shower. He was ten thousand up for the day but would need to double that for the buy-in at the big tournament. It would be difficult, but it could be done.

A quick check at the Hotel desk revealed there were no messages or phone calls. And still no word still of Starling's fate. This would of course affect his actions when and if he encountered Le Chiffre. He wouldn't, as he preferred, be able to just kill him on the spot. It made the job more difficult. More exacting.

There was an older French restaurant just a pleasant walk from the Hotel. Bond had eaten there many years ago. Before this mess with LeChiffre, before Vesper, before the silver Lancia, and before Starling. Perhaps it would lift his spirits to dine there. He phoned ahead and made a quick reservation.

It was a pleasant evening. A cooler than normal breeze was moving the fragrant sea air onshore. Moving slowly along the boardwalk, evening revelers paused to take in the sights of neighboring shops. Perhaps it was a reflection in the shop windows that got his attention or the syncopated footsteps in rhythm with his own. Whatever it was, Bond deduced he was being followed.

Bond ducked into a windowed alcove and used the reflections to his advantage. His 'shadow' also paused to look at the first window he neared. The man was tall, lean, and dark; a mere shadow in the night. It seemed like they were all alike, the threats that followed in the dark. Why were they all alike?

Foot traffic along the boardwalk had coagulated into stagnant groups and then moved on. Bond was now alone with no friends but the fist-sized hunk of steel under his armpit. He touched it with his right hand for reassurance. Better now than later, he thought. With his back to the possible assailant, his right hand slipped under the lapel of his jacket and flicked off the safety of the Walther.

Pivoting on his left foot, Bond drew and extended the gun arm to the very spot the man had been standing. But the man was not there. Mouths agape and with eyes as big as saucers, the two grey haired ladies from his baccarat table stood there instead.

Quickly holstering the weapon, Bond apologized for his actions and then scurried off. Managing a seat overlooking the front door, he blew away his show of nerves with a bottle of Mouton Rothschild. After a delicious dinner, consisting of turbot poché with cream sauce and a delicious roast partridge, Bond returned to his room. Chased by no more demons, he fell into a deep sleep.

‡‡‡‡‡

Eager to start the day, Bond arrived punctually at his table before the other players. This was one of the few times he considered baccarat like business and treated it as such. He greeted each new entrant with a nod asthey arrived. There was no sign of Tánger Torre, but Bond wasn't surprised. Rarely were players seated together on consecutive days. It was just as well, he reasoned. Today would be difficult at best and the last thing he needed was a pretty diversion.

By mid-afternoon, Bond was ten thousand up with another ten thousand to go. As the weaker players left the game only the big fish were left. The sharks could smell blood in the water as the bets grew bolder and the pace got quicker. If he could hold out until the evening, he should win another ten thousand easy enough.

All afternoon, he'd been under the lazy-eyed gaze of a well fed Hispanic. Perhaps the leader of a Mexican drug cartel, the man mused and cursed in a vulgar dialect of Spanish whenever the cards failed. He would glare at Bond with a contempt that said he disliked proper Englishmen gentleman. He reflected a certain ruthlessness in the deep basalt eyes and was the most dangerous player at Bond's table.

"Banco," challenged the man.

In for ten thousand, the man was going head to head for all the money Bond had put in for the bank. If Bond could win the bet he would have tomorrow's entry fee and then some.

"Very good," replied Bond in a light and casual tone. He was obviously making fun of his competitor's deadpan delivery. "What's your name by the way?"

The man looked sorely irritated by the question. He paused to smile at Bond's levity and decided to play along.

"Curro Rivera; and what's yours?"

"Mark Fields."

"Very good Mister Fields – shall we play?"

Bond smiled in return and drew a card for the Mexican and one for himself that he slid under the shoe. He repeated the process and sat back to watch Curro Rivera play cards. The Mexican took one look at the cards and slapped them down on the green baize.

"Carte," he barked. Bond drew another card for the Mexican face up. It was a five of clubs. The croupier slid the card with his long handled spatula and dropped it in front of the Mexican. Curro Rivera showed no emotion to the five he had collected.

Bond turned his own cards over: A worthless Queen and a Knave. The response was automatic; Bond must draw another card for himself. Still, he paused for a moment to collect good karma.

Almost caressed the top card, Bond slid it off the deck and flipped it over. It was an eight of diamonds.

The Mexican was furious and slapped the table with enough force to rock it. He had drawn the five over a face card and a two. The five had made it a decent hand, but Bond's was one better. His hand of eight had added ten more thousand to his earnings. He had more than enough to enter the weekend tournament. One step closer to the bastard Le Chiffre. There was no need to finish this tournament.

"With that I must pass the shoe," announced Bond and rose slowly from the chair. The Mexican looked stunned by this admission. "And good luck to you in the tournament Monsieur Rivera."

Bond collected his placards in hand, smiled at the onlookers hanging on the brass rail, and continued on to the caisse. He cashed in the chips and placards for a check worth the thirty five thousand.

"Mister Fields," he heard a voice call from behind him. It was Tánger Torre. She stood there looking cool and collected in a light weight summer frock with a long hem to the ankles.

Bond couldn't help but give her the once over. "Please, you must call me Mark."

"I won," she said beaming with a handful of chips. "...enough to enter the tournament tomorrow."

"Then we're both in luck."

"That's wonderful!" she said. "We should celebrate with a drink."

Bond smiled. This was quite a turn from her icy demeanor of the preceding day.

"It would be uncivilized not to," he replied and folded the check and put it away in the inside pocket of his jacket.

Tánger cashed her winnings and they quickly left the playing floor behind them. The bar sported two sections. Bond motioned to a table in front of a window overlooking the water. She acknowledged her approval with a smile. Bond immediately went for her chair.

"So how did it go?" asked Bond. "Did you have an easy time of it?"

"Oh heavens no, I was almost wiped out this afternoon..."

The sommelier bounced by to drop a wine list on the table and then scampered off just as fast.

"But you won it back?" Bond asked her merrily and then looked over the list.

"After losing all day I was almost broke – then I don't know what happened, but I couldn't stop winning. It was the most wonderful feeling."

Bond smiled knowingly.

"They have some fine local wines here," he said, half-telling, half-asking, and she responded with brief nod. Bond ordered a Taittinger and the young sommelier had it on their table in a matter of moments. He made a formal show of the presentation and pouring.

"Tell me," began Bond. "Tánger Torre is Spanish, but you don't sound it."

She shook her head and smiled. "You're right Mister Fields - excuse me, _Mark_. My father made his career in the Spanish navy and I grew up in different ports around the world. He wanted the household to stick with Spanish, but my mother was French and detested my father's rather straight-forward approach to life. She brought the appreciation of things cultural into our lives."

Bond nodded. "Well that explains your accent, or the lack of it. Do you speak French as well?"

"Très bien, mais je ne l'utilise pas souvent – mi español es mucho mejor."

Picking up just enough to understand her meaning, Bond laughed. He was intrigued with this woman and wondered why she was there alone. Had she suffered through a broken marriage or breakup. Perhaps it was thrill of winning or losing. She was not an experienced gambler; that was for sure.

She might have come across a tidy sum. Perhaps one left to her by parents who bought a nice little place along the Mediterranean in the post-war years when the prices were cheap. Had they passed away and left it to Tánger? Today it would be worth a fortune. Not wishing to live there herself, she might have sold it?

As the end of the bottle neared, it was time for Bond to either ask her to dinner or to apologize and say goodnight. He desperately wanted to continue the evening, but his mood suddenly clouded over.

This was a job, and it wouldn't end until he found Le Chiffre, or received news of Starling, or both. Starling had been missing for too long without word of any kind. At night in his dreams he could still hear the dogs at Château de Cheverny. A ransom notice should have been received by now if they were going to get one. The news would come some day when you least expected it. Her body would wash up along a river bank in a country you'd never have guessed. Would he be called in to identify the remains? His stomach wrenched.

Bond's apology quickly ensued. "We must stay in touch," he told Tánger and suggested they touch base after the tournament. She accepted gracefully but he knew they never would. No matter how attractive the opportunity, some things were never meant to be.

‡‡‡‡‡

Bond would have to find Le Chiffre before he himself was discovered. While he might not be able to recognize the man, Bond knew Le Chiffre was due to be playing at the Royale. Le Chiffre on the other hand should have no reason be expecting him. He figured his chances were about even.

Still, it was not the odds he preferred. He needed an edge and the only one he could think of required help. He needed to begin with a list of the players at the tournament. The second would involve Moneypenny.

The list of players turned out to be confidential. After a bogus story about a lost aunt and a large tip, he managed to wrestle a copy away from a member of the night staff. He wasn't surprised to find that Le Chiffre was nowhere on the list. He would most likely be using an alias and may have dropped the use of the name entirely.

That's where Moneypenny would come in.

"Hullo."

"Penny – it's James."

"James – I can barely hear you. Where the hell are you?"

"Never-mind that for now, can you do me a favor?"

"What kind of favor James – it's my day off you know."

"I'll make it up to you Penny."

"And just how James? You still owe me for the last _favor."_

"I'll make good this time Penny – I promise. Let's say a dinner of your choice..."

"Anywhere?"

"You got it!"

"...okay James – what's the favor?"

"I've got a list of names I'm sending you..."

"How many?"

"About sixty."

"And what am I to do with them?"

"Run them down to CQ and get a brief background check on as many as you can. They should all turn up; easy to spot with well to do backgrounds."

"And what are we looking for?"

"We're looking for those that don't turn up anything at all."

"This doesn't make any sense James."

"I'll explain later – just do it," he said, impatiently. "Oh, by the way: get me a full background check on Tánger Torre," he asked and then spelled the name.

"It sounds beautiful – is she?"

"Please Penny, be a good girl and get me the backgrounds before six tonight."

* * *

Bond was adjusting his tux and there was still no word from Moneypenny. Damnit all to hell – just where was she he wondered when the mobile, he seldom used, went off.

"Bond here."

"James..."

"Penny, where the hell have you been?"

"Sorry James, but if you knew what I've been through."

"What?" he asked, disbelievingly.

"That lot at CQ – they won't do this sort of thing now without approvals – without signatures. I had to forge them. James, if this gets back to M my neck will be in a noose."

"Now don't you worry Penny, I'll square things with M. What did you turn up?"

"Nothing James. Almost nothing that is. Just a couple of these names on the list got a hit?"

"Are you sure? Which ones?"

"The Vanderveers; they're from a well to do family of financiers from the Netherlands. Then you're got a hit on the Fairly-Debeers and there's…"

"Penny, how many – how many names?"

"Just five names. Oh, and nothing at all on Tánger Torre. She's a complete ghost James."

There was a long silence.

"James – what are you mixed up in?"

"I'm not sure. I thought I knew, but now I'm not sure."

"Well... just be careful and stay in touch."

"I'll try, but I'm working you know."

"You're supposed to be on sick leave."

"I owe you a big one Penny."

"You better make good on this one James."

:

* * *

**A/N:** So sorry for taking this long to get a chapter out. Promise to do better on the next one. Some year-end projects kept me away from writing for some time. Also, much baccarat research was necessary to become really familiar with the European versions of the game.

A note for what it's worth: Bond's version of baccarat was referred to as Chemin de Fer in the films, books, and WiKi pages. However, and that being said; what Fleming describes in Casino Royale was almost undoubtedly Baccarat Banque. Le Chiffre bought the bank and was always the dealer. He also plays two halves or (tableaus), which is all typical of Baccarat Banque. Would happily welcome comments on this.


	14. Nemesis

****Say You Love Me** **

**Chapter 14.**

**Nemesis**

Bond said goodbye to Moneypenny and put the damned mobile away. Why the hell did he have to hear that. He was having a wonderful time and a wonderful dream, and now he had to wake up. The game had changed. It was a slap in the face, a kick in the bum, and a rude awakening.

Now Bond felt stupid. The tip had come from Bradley, and as with all the tips from Bradley it had come with a hitch. He could see Bradley with a grin in his face and giving him the finger. As far as Bond knew, the tournament had never been advertised. A few players visiting Royale had stumbled into the damned thing and they were the five innocent names found. The rest were playing under a cover name.

Bond could only guess it was a private game for the criminal cohorts of ICE. Perhaps friends of Le Chiffre. It was made clear now; this job would not be a trip down memory lane. He would not waltz into the room with a beautiful woman on his arms and make right what had been set wrong so many years ago.

Now it looked for all the world that his only friend at the tournament, Tánger Torre, worked for the enemy. He'd been careless not to have suspected her before. It was amazing how beauty had a way of assuaging danger. Had she now discovered who _he_ was. The dark night on the boardwalk; it could have been her with her hair under a hat. Her slender features could have made her appear taller at a distance.

Arriving at the tournament early, Bond sat waiting in the lobby-like entry area in a fat leather chesterfield. He made a show of taking out a custom made Morland from the gold cigarette case. He watched carefully as each player entered the game floor. He gently tapped the cigarette on both ends against his watch crystal before lighting it. He wondered if he would have any chance in recognizing Le Chiffre if the man walked straight up to him. Certainly the man would have lost the stocky figure. The reddish brown hair would have likely grayed. The aquiline nose would have been surely re-shaped. The face might have been changed but the brown eyes and feminine mouth would likely remain the same.

"Hello Mark!" Bond turned to see Tánger. She entered the room amid a swirl of black chiffon with a matching black satin jacket.

"Well Hello," he answered as if addressing a dear friend. She was certainly a good looking enemy and it was all too easy to return a pleasant smile. Why did the only acquaintance in the place have to be an enemy? Would he have to kill her later?

"You look ready to play Mark – and aren't they about to begin?"

"I'm sure they are," he replied. "Thought this might help me size up the competition."

"You know – you might be right," she said and took the other club chair beside his. "Do you mind if I join you."

"Be my guest," he said, and she sat down and crossed one leg over the other and placed the small black clutch in her lap. Bond wondered if it held a gun – possibly one of the new compact Berettas. He offered her a cigarette but she politely shook her head.

"I have to admit Mark – I am a little nervous. You look calm and collected. How on earth do you manage?"

"Well, you see – it comes with the experience of playing too many high stakes matches, I'm afraid. It's a curse really. Not at all what I would consider a gift."

Bond rambled on more nonsense while studying the features of every player that entered the room. No one entered that even remotely resembled Le Chiffre. The onrush of players slowed to a trickle. When the Morland had burned down to the gold band, Bond extinguished the fag and escorted Tánger into the playing area.

Arriving late gave Bond one more chance to scan the room as best he could before leaving his winning check with the caisse. With five five thousand pound placards and the rest in smaller chips he worked his way very carefully to his assigned at 5 – G. This seat was almost dead center of the large room. Bond felt like the fox in a roomful of hounds.

Tánger had slipped away and he could no longer see her. She might be at a table behind him, but he couldn't turn around to look – not yet. He studied the players at his table. They were all made up names he didn't recognize with the exception of Miss Fairly-Debeers who appeared to be a young socialite with a South-African accent. He had memorized the names of five innocents and she was the only one at his table.

Soon the little bell that signaled play to began rang softly. A scuffling sound emanated about the room as players roused to the ready in a sudden release of nervous energy. At his table, the bank was immediately won by a small man with a Charlie Chan mustache.

Play began with Miss Fairly-Debeers opening strong. Bond would coast through the first few hands until the time felt right. He studied the brass rail that circled the playing floor, but there was no tell-tale sign of bodyguards to give away Le Chiffre's position. Except for the average looking guest that one would expect to find at Royale, there appeared to be no easy to signs to help find Le Chiffre.

Back at the game, the young socialite was beginning to struggle. She paused to light a cigarette in a bone colored holder and studied her shrinking pile of chips. Slowly she drew a deep lungful of smoke and exhaled it all at an equal rate. Her breasts, more out than in, rose and fell in the tight fitting evening dress. Aggressively she challenged Charlie Chan who was again the banker.

"Banco!"

Bold as brass, she bet her last chips and was wiped out just as boldly by Charlie Chan. One down and more to go. Extracting the remainder of her cigarette from the bone holder, Miss Fairly-Debeers kicked a long high-heeled leg from the split skirt and then left the table without a trace of emotion. Charlie Chan twirled one end of his mustache and gathered in the cards.

With a face as calm as a porcelain doll Charlie Chan shuffled the cards and prepared to deal again. Could the faced be cracked with more pressure wondered Bond. Perhaps that would do it.

"Banco!" he announced.

Basalt eyes looked his way but for only a moment. Like an automaton he dealt the cards, slipping his own cards under the shoe. With a handle long enough to turn pizzas, the croupier slipped the thin paddle under the cards and slid them off in front of Bond with one slick movement.

Curling the edges up revealed a five of clubs and a three of hearts – a natural eight. Bond turned the potentially winning hand over. For a moment Charlie Chan looked amused and quickly went back to the business of his cards. Only a natural nine could win it for the dealer now. He turned over the cards – a worthless knave and a two of spades. With the same movement he swept the cards away. He gave Bond one more glance before handing over the shoe. The porcelain face never showed a trace of emotion as his generalship came to an end.

With a run of wins at an end, Bond relinquished the shoe. A thick man who resembled a sumo wrestler, reached out with thick fingers to hoist the contraption away. With no quarter given or taken, the battle raged on with no real advantage to any side.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bond looked for any players to exit through the door to his left. With any other spare moment he would study the room for any clue of Le Chiffre. There was a glimpse of black chiffon. Bond turned to see Tánger moving toward the door. There was no bounce to her step and Bond guessed she'd been delivered the card playing equivalent of the coup de grâce.

When the weakest player at the table won big, the group all leaned away from the table with a sigh. There was no way the game would end quickly and the group agreed on a short break.

As play resumed, Bond critically evaluated the next banking challenger. With a face and nose like a Pantalone, the new banker slapped the shoe with more authority than most. Giving the table better cards than himself he quickly faded and passed the shoe to Bond.

Exhuming new energies after the break, Bond hit a run, making casualties of _Pantalone and Sumo wrestler_. It was now, in Bond's opinion, time for a drink. He flagged down a barman who quickly scampered up the table.

"A dry vodka martini," ordered Bond, "and shaken not stirred."

"Yes sir," he said and looked around the table for any other requests. When there were none he smiled and disappeared.

Bond sampled the drink and thanked the Barmen. Only now did it become obvious that the drink had been delivered with a white coaster with a note scribbled in pencil upon it.

_James,_

_Get out while you can. When the five are gone you'll be killed._

_Tánger_

James? She had addressed him as James. Now Bond was intrigued as to who this woman was. As one would, when one gets a mysterious note, Bond instinctively looked around the room. There was no sign of Tánger. When the five are gone you'll be killed. It seemed safe to presume she meant the innocent players. The five that had wandered into the midst of this wretched lot without a clue.

As far as the warning: he had no intention of losing – at least not yet. He had to stay until he found Le Chiffre or was convinced the man was not there.

At the halfway point, the competition had thinned and were to be re-assigned new tables after a thirty minute break. Again, Bond ventured into the lobby for a Morland. He casually lit the cigarette while studying the players that left or entered through the casino door. There was no figures, coming or going, that remotely resembled Le Chiffre. There were no players carrying the telltale entourage that Le Chiffre commanded in the past. Was the man there at all?

As far as the 'five innocents', he guessed only Vanderveer was left. Moneypenny had emailed a list of the five and their backgrounds. Vanderveer was a successful financier from Amsterdam and probably a damned fine card player. Bond wondered what would happen if by some chance Vanderveer didn't lose? Would they kill him before letting him win? Probably not, it would spoil the competitive nature of the whole event.

Somewhere from within the dark mood clicked on a light. A voice began to well up inside of him, and the voice said fuck it. Any one of these bastards could know whether Le Chiffre was there or not. All he had to do was ask – forcefully that is. Only a small screening would need to be made. Waiting outside the men's lavatory, a gentlemen that Bond recognized as a player approached. Bond appeared to be digging through his pockets for an implement to ignite his cigarette.

"Excuse me," he began. "Would you have a light?"

The man looked irritated by the question. Did Bond not know there were paper matches everywhere in the lobby?

"No – I don't smoke," he replied and disappeared into the loo. Bond nodded, pleased to find they shared a common language. Even though he knew enough French, and was adequately versed in several other languages to get by, it was important not to make mistakes here.

Kicking open the door Bond followed the man into the loo. The man was addressing the urinal and glaring at Bond as he approached.

"Did you come in here to watch me piss? I told you I don't have a light," he protested.

Bond drew the Walther and clicked off the safety.

"Shut-up," ordered Bond. "I know the whole lot of you are criminals. Tell me which one is Le Chiffre or it'll be your last piss."

"Now see here. I don't know you are or what you're talking about – and I don't know any Le Chiffre."

Bond cocked the hammer on the Walther with an audible click that echoed in the tile lined lavatory.

"Then you'll die for it," he barked and shoved the barrel into the man's temple.

"Okay, okay. Just wait a minute. It's true – you're right about us. But I don't know this Le Chiffre you're after. We're all using aliases here."

"You'll show me then," barked Bond.

"Yes, I'll show you."

Trembling, the gent fastened his trouser fly and then quickly turned toward the door. Pocketing the Walther, Bond followed the man out of the john and onto the Casino floor. Once safely among his friends, he looked back at Bond and then ran like a scared rabbit.

This response had been what Bond expected; with the game over for him now, he collected his placards and quickly cashed them out. He made a show leaving and went looking for the closed-circuit television room. It wasn't hard to find. Located in an out of the way spot just over the casino floor, Bond turned the latch but the door was locked. He used the electronic lock pick and opened the door in seconds.

The room was dimly lit with two men fixed to black and white monitors. The closest man lifted his head for only a moment.

"Who are you?" he asked, suspiciously but without alarm. There had been several other security types in and out all week. One more didn't seem terribly unusual.

"House detective," snapped Bond. "Looking for that chap that just entered the floor."

"Been several just in the last minute."

"Short stocky one."

The operator selected several camera views as Bond stood watching over his shoulder.

"That's the one," said Bond. The man stood up from his table and looked around the room. Satisfied Bond was nowhere in sight, he stepped out of the camera view. The operator switched camera until the man was back. He walked up to a corner table and spoke into a player's ear. Possibly to warn the player of Bond's inquiry. Whoever the player was his back was turned to the camera.

"That one," exclaimed Bond. "Can I see his face?" he asked and pointed to the seated figure.

The operator switched views until a profile came into view of the subject. He flicked another and the figure was more or less facing the camera, still listening to the man whisper into his ear.

"How's that?"

"That's good."

Studying the subject for a few moments, there was little there to remind him of Le Chiffre. The once reddish-brown hair was cropped short and grey. The once stout features were now lean and gaunt. The chubby face was drawn tight and sallow. The once thick bridge of the nose had been drawn thin. The dark eyes evaded the camera and defied identification. A name-tag on his lapel said 'Mr. White.'

Could this be Le Chiffre? It seemed unlikely, and there was no way to move with evidence this sparse. Glued to the screen Bond continued to watch. As the dealer threw two cards toward the figure Bond's heart lifted. Two hands like little crabs ran along on fingertips to grab up the cards. By God it was Le Chiffre! Bond had seen him do this so many times; it had to be the man.

"What table and seat if that?" he asked.

"Uh… seven-C, I believe."

"Thanks," he said and left the two puzzled operators behind him. Bond pushed his way though he double doors of the casino as he scanned the room over for Le Chiffre's table. He looked toward seven-C and then the brass rail behind the table. There were no bodyguards behind as one would expect.

Carefully and without haste Bond approached his target until he was standing a few feet away. There were still no bodyguards.

Finally, the man looked up as if he'd been expecting him all along. He moved his head diagonally as if offering compliments.

"We have business Le Chiffre," said Bond, with his hand full of the Walther in his pocket. Le Chiffre looked at the bulging pocket and then at Bond.

"Well… you've got balls Bond. I'll give you that, but if you think I'll just follow you out of here you're mad."

Bond rolled his shoulders into a shrug. "Have it your way," he said. "Bit if you don't go I'm going to make one hell of a mess of you, right here, in front of your colleagues."

"They're not all colleagues if you can believe that."

Everyone at the table nodded their agreement to this.

"It would be best if you followed me out," he said at length.

Le Chiffre shook his head.

"What do you want?"

"Information."

"You can ask me here," came the reply with a dismissing wave of the hand. Two men in evening jackets sauntered up to the rail behind Le Chiffre; a big one and a short one. They both looked rough and out of place in the surroundings of the upscale casino. The ill-fitted dinner jackets did nothing to improve on this. Once positioned clearly behind their boss, they smirked and smiled at Bond. The smaller man had his hand in his pocket. He would be the first to draw the gun that was surely hidden in his pocket.

"It would be best done outside – and these won't stop me," he reminded Le Chiffre and the two hoods frowned with clinched lips and leered at Bond. Bond inched his hand out of his pocket to test the gun toting bodyguard.

"Okay – okay, we'll take it outside."

Le Chiffre made a slow effort to get up and stuffed his placards into his coat pocket. From beside the table he retrieved a cane. Leaning heavily on the cane he struggled to make his way around the tables and toward the door.

"You may have cost me the tournament," he griped.

Bond didn't answer but escorted Le Chiffre with a loaded gun toward the door. The hush that had fell over the room was gradually replaced by chatter and other sounds of normalcy. Before exiting the playing floor, Le Chiffre paused to let the two bodyguards catch up. There was no time for a calculated plan. Bond would have to take out the two bodyguard at first convenience. There was simply no other way to manage the situation. The first guard would go for his gun, sooner or later, and Bond would kill him first.

They pushed on toward the isolated bar room, Bond keeping one eye ahead and the other on Le Chiffre and the two guards.

"This is good," commanded Bond, and Le Chiffre and the two guards came to a sluggish stop.

"After all these years – just what do you want Bond?"

"It was good to hear you're still alive Le Chiffre. Now we can finish what you started years ago."

"That was years ago. It's a miracle either one of us is still alive. What are you after Bond – revenge?"

"News of my partner – agent Starling?"

Le Chiffre looked away absently. "I know nothing of her."

"You should – it was your rat filth organization that took her."

Le Chiffre let the question hang in air tainted with the smell of death.

"I'm sure she's long gone by now. Just like you'll be for pulling this stunt. You were lucky the last time Bond. You shouldn't have come back."

"How did she die?"

"How would I know."

Bond sensed the small man beginning to pull his gun. The hammer was going back on his on piece as the Walther cleared his pocket. By the time Le Chiffre's bodyguard had his gun fully drawn Bond's gun was leveled on the man's heart. The Walther coughed once and the small man fell backwards unnaturally over a small table and into a contorted pile on the floor.

Before the second bodyguard could clear his gun barrel from inside his jacket lapel, Bond put one in the man's gaping mouth. Le Chiffre had both hands up before the second man fell. There were screams from the bar as guests began to clear the room through the back door.

"I'll ask you again."

"She's alive Bond," countered Le Chiffre.

"Make me believe that or you're next." Bond extended the arm holding the Walther a few inches.

"We kept her for information, I think. That and a few other things. I can't promise much, but she's alive. That's all I know."

Bond nodded slowly. "We'll work out a trade then. It's that, or you die right here."

"A trade – or course we can manage a trade. That should be easy."

Bond sucked a deep breath of air in his lungs. This was the first hope he'd had in weeks. He had no idea how he could make the exchange. He certainly couldn't do it here. He'd need a crowded place. Perhaps in the train station in Paris.

"We need to arrange a place and a time," explained Bond. "How long will it take to get her ready?"

High heels were approaching from behind. Standing was in the entryway, he had no way to turn and look.

"How much time?" asked Bond.

"Time… well hardly any at all Bond, look behind you."

_Look behind you_. Did Le Chiffre take him for a complete fool. He looked the man over. Still leaning on the cane, he looked as though he was about to fall over sideways. He never frisked him – did he have a gun hidden away?

The footsteps were growing louder. Necessity dictated he should risk a quick glance. He quickly snapped around. Moving toward them in the corridor was Tánger Torre. She had an open clutch in one hand a gun in the other.

From Tánger's pistol, Bond saw the flash of light and heard the explosion and then everything went black.

:

**A/N: **Sincere grats for the new fav's and follows and much thanks for comments from Christi. Changed the ICI acronym to ICE. The underlying words weren't as applicable, but it seemed to work better overall.

A little better than last time but still – this chapter took a little longer than my normal. I tell ya – it just ain't getting no easier.


	15. The Cat's Tail

****Say You Love Me** **

**Chapter 15.**

**The Cat's Tail**

Bond lay on his back with the world spinning around him. For just a moment, he could feel someone shake him by the shoulders. He could hear a voice, perhaps that of an angel at the other end of a long tunnel. He wanted to answer but couldn't. He tried to pry his eyes open to look but couldn't.

"James!"

It was a beautiful voice. He wanted to open his eyes but they refused to budge.

"James! We've got to go – do you understand me – we've got to get the hell of of here."

Slowly the protective cocoon he was wrapped in began to fade away. First, he was robbed of comfort and then slapped with pain in the back of his head. He opened his eyes to see Tánger kneeling over him. Not being sure if he could trust the woman, it took him more than a few moments to process the situation.

"What happened," came the first stupid question.

"You've been hit in the back of the head. James, we've got to go. The others will be coming soon."

"Who are you?" It was a lame question, but all he could manage.

Tánger looked around, as if expecting the enemy at any moment.

"We don't have time for this – we have to go."

Bond studied her sluggishly but couldn't comply. Now the panic was beginning to show in Miss Torre's eyes. Unable to use verbal means to persuade, she bent over and kissed him full and with feeling. More curious than anything else, he finally let the attractive woman pull him to his feet.

Shaking out the cobwebs Bond took a few steps but almost threw up. Now, several sets of heavy footsteps were approaching. Allowing Tánger to escort him by the arm, they stepped around pools of blood and made their way into a corridor leading away from the bar and the approaching footsteps.

With nowhere else to go at the end of the corridor, Tánger pulled him out of harms way and into a ladies lavatory. With Bond nursing the back of his head with a wet towel, Tánger listened by the door with the Beretta at the ready. Footsteps approached but didn't enter the loo. Stalled at the end of the corridor, the sounds of confused footsteps finally drifted away.

"We have to get out of here James."

"Who are you?" he asked again, remembering Tánger was yet to be formally identified.

"A friend of your friend – Felix Leiter."

"Felix! Where is the old bastard?" he asked, dobbing blood off the back of his head.

"Retired from field service, but he's still around."

"So… you worked with Felix?"

"I did. When we worked in the same 'department'."

"My head is still cracking. What happened back there anyhow?"

"The old man with the cane hit you."

"Le Chiffre? How, he was too far away!"

"That bit with the cane was a ruse. As soon as you turned he was on you like a shot. I didn't get a clear line of fire, but I think I hit him in the shoulder."

"That's the second time the bastard has tricked me with a cane."

"We have to get out of here James."

"What? Out of the ladies lavatory?"

"No. Out of Royale."

"I've got to find Le Chiffre." Bond took a step toward the door and almost fell on his face. He managed to grab onto the sink and stay upright.

"You're in no shape for that now. We got to get you out of here."

"How?"

"They'll be watching all the doors. If we can get upstairs, there's a fire escape out the back."

"And then what?" snarled Bond.

"Leave that to me."

"We'll never make it on the road," he argued.

"Not if we leave from here – come on!"

With no energy to resist, he followed the gun-toting goddess as they carefully negotiated the corridors to a service lift and on to the top floor. From there, they kicked open a window and made their way to an alley behind the building, via the fire escape.

The boardwalk was almost deserted at this time of night. Following it as far as they could they paused and waited at the narrow entrance to a small cove. There was many slips there where twenty or thirty boats were tied off.

Making sure they weren't seen, Tánger led Bond to an older styled, weathered, blue and white, cabin cruiser that was about thirty foot in length. They paused again to make sure no one saw them board. She struggled in the dark to open a combination lock to the small cabin below.

"There's a bunk there that should help," she said. "You get some sleep. I'll watch out up here. We'll leave at first light – should only be a couple hours from now," she figured and looked toward the east.

‡‡‡‡‡

At first light, Bond heard the diesel engine cough then sputter to life. With the Walther under his pillow, he had never really slept and was just beginning to drift off when the engine came to life.

Looking out a small porthole window, the harbor gradually slipped behind them as Tanger turned the cruiser west toward Dieppe. Bucking into a headwind the small craft struggled with the wind and waves. He tried to get more sleep but the smell of exhaust and fuel with the heavy rocking made him nauseous. Throwing on the jacket he wore the night before he climbed to the upper deck and joined Tánger at the wheel station.

"Good morning," she said. She had changed from the frilly black evening dress into old coveralls that must have been stowed somewhere on board. Sandals stained with fuel oil, salt looked practical and comfortable on her feet.

"Good morning," echoed Bond as he rubbed the back of his sore head.

"There's a bit of coffee left. It's not too hot but it's coffee nonetheless," she said and pointed to the above deck cabin. Bond nodded and carefully entered the cabin and reemerged with a cup of java he cradled with both hands.

"Where to?" he asked between sips.

"I figure Dieppe. If this weather doesn't change we can get there by mid-day," she said and glanced outside the boat. "We can get cleaned up and catch a train there. By tomorrow morning we should make Marseille."

"What's in Marseille?"

"Another boat – mine. A thirty five foot sloop. She sails like a dream."

"But my dear Tánger. I've already told you. I don't have time to take holiday on the Med. I have to find Le Chiffre. It's important."

"Why Le Chiffre. If we go back there you'll be killed. Besides, he's likely shot and already long gone. I have some information we picked while running electronic surveillance. A part of his group was splitting off and making for a few days of holiday at Palma."

"Mallorca?"

"Yes, and by using my boat we can stay away from airports, which will be dangerous for us now. Who knows, with any luck we might get there before they do."

"Well, it sounds like a good plan – but all the same, I don't have time for long-shots. You might say lives depend on it."

"Are you referring to the missing British agent; the girl who was your partner?"

Suddenly she had his full attention. "Do you have information on her?"

Tánger nodded. "Yes."

Now Bond paused. Unwilling to go further he looked away.

"She's dead," he said flatly.

"No – she's not."

"How do you know _that_? And what was your job back there?" he demanded.

"Ease up," she said. "We'll talk later. Right now you need rest."

He smiled at her nurturing persistence and then settled down in the stern of the boat and let the salt air wash over his face.

‡‡‡‡‡

Running into headwind and wave set them into Dieppe and hour behind Tánger's schedule. Still, they had time to find casual clothes in a small consignment shoppe before making their way to the train depot. Barely securing their tickets in time, they grabbed sandwiches and a cold beer on the run from a depot vendor.

Tánger secured a train cabin with a sleeper booth. With Bond still shaky and nauseous, she insisted he take the bunk while she lounged. Listening to the rolling rhythm of the clacking wheels had him sleeping in no time.

Bond awoke in time for diner. Even though he felt refreshed, the pillowcase was stained with blood from the gash from Le Chiffre's cane.

"You better let me see that," she insisted, and went on until he relented.

"We can't do anything about it here," he protested but she ignored his remonstrations and furrowed through his hair to inspect the gash.

"You may have experienced a serious concussion," she fussed.

"As I said; there's nothing we can do about it."

"The hell there isn't. You need rest. And you'll need stitches when we get to Marseille."

"I need a drink," he growled. "That will do for now."

Tánger laughed. "Well then get dressed," she snapped. "We'll have dinner. I'm hungry."

Changing into their best second-hand clothes, Bond accompanied his new friend to the club car. The dining arrangements were accommodating but modern and far from first class. Bond started with a vodka martini and ordered a bottle of Taittinger for Tánger.

"It's good we still have plastic," she muttered.

"What?" he asked.

"Bank cards," she replied. "We'd been in a fix without them."

"So..." began Bond. "Are you really Spanish? Or was that all made up."

She looked a little put off by the question.

"No. I am Spanish," she began. "My father insisted I attend American University when I became of age. I was a little late getting started because we moved about and I changed schools so much. When I finally arrived in America I was happy to be in one place for so long. You know, for the first time I could make new friends without the fear of losing them. That was nice."

"So how'd you wind up in the CIA?"

She canted her head before answering. The perfectly straight hair was getting a bit stringy. They both needed a bath.

"I was recruited at a university job fair. Since I was brought up overseas and spoke several languages, I was a natural. Or so they told me. Who knows… it was a long time ago and here I am."

"What can you tell me… about agent Starling. I'm eager to know?"

She reflected a moment on the question.

"It's a tricky thing really. We're not supposed to be spying on your side… or any of Europe for that matter, but we do like to keep up."

"Of course. Your secret is safe with me." Tánger nodded at the gentlemen's agreement.

"We've been following the group you're after."

"ICE?"

"Whatever they're called. We only know them by their electronic signature."

"Is that why you were in Royale?"

"No, I was following a drug cartel leader."

"The Mexican?"

"Yes."

"Curro Rivera?"

Tánger laughed. "I haven't heard that one. No – his real name is Raymundo Morales. He thinks he's quite the ladies man; hence the bit with Curro."

"And now you've lost him," he said apolegetically, half asking, half telling.

"My cover was blown – or was very soon to be. Curro," she said in an animated voice, "can wait."

"But you're interested in ICE now?"

"When I ran into you – yes. I'd love to compare notes. We might be able to help each other."

It was Bond's turn to laugh.

"What's funny," she asked. He shook his head.

"Following you – to Marseille; that's what's funny."

"You do need the rest," she protested.

"Yes I do."

Bond helped Tánger with the Taittinger, pouring a glass for her and a small one for himself. He was suddenly bored with the playful banter. Spinning head or no, it was time to get back to business. He had wanted Le Chiffre. He had wanted him dead, but it was information on Starling he was really after.

"We can compare notes. That's no problem with me. I'd like to start with what happened back there. How did you come to know who I am, and how do know Starling is alive?"

Miss Torre swallowed hard. "Of course, that's fair. We had a tap on computer and email traffic coming in and out of Royale. Not as much as it used to be," she lamented. "Most criminals are using mobiles today. Anyhow, they sent a video of you off for identification. The reply came back to eliminate James Bond at the earliest convenience."

"On their toes aren't they?"

"Yes – and Miss Starling, we had a female accomplice showing up on videos of known ICE members in Brussels. We know they're ICE now thanks to you. But we didn't know who she was and didn't have a name for the group she was with. We knew they were connected to trafficking and drug related offenses. Some didn't fit that mold and we wondered how they might have been connected. The normal communications between your office and ours notified us that she was missing. The videos are very good and she appeared normal – or at least to us. We think she's turned James."

Bond looked at little shocked at first. "That's unlikely. She must be playing the double."

"They don't look like fools James. They would have used the normal breakdown techniques connected to brainwashing – interrogation, sleep deprivation – and all other means of torture including rape."

This drew a grimace from Bond.

"They continue until the subject is supple and compliant. This is where the real brainwashing starts – after the torture."

"I know that – I've had it performed on me," he said. "Never raped though."

"Well," she continued. "The times are changing. We're trained for that now."

"Trained?" he asked. "How on earth do you train for that?"

"You don't want to know."

"We'll maybe not, but I know a little about Starling – and I don't think she broke."

Tánger nodded sideways. "Well, maybe not, but she looks pretty comfortable with her captors."

"We have to find her," Bond said abruptly.

"You still need rest," she barked, "and besides, we may find a good lead in Mallorca. You may be back on her trail in no time." With that Bond settled back in his seat and said nothing.

‡‡‡‡‡

After the drink and further reinforcement that Starling was alive, Bond took to the sleeper booth like a fish to water. Awakened by a morning fresh Tánger they made the station in Marseille a short time later. There was a walk-in clinic where Bond was able to get stitches for the gash left by Le Chiffre. What he couldn't fix was the dizzy spells left over from the concussion.

This made it all the easier for Tánger to win her argument that Bond would require much rest. Taking a taxi to _Old Port_, they had another mile on foot with bags to reach Tánger's boat. Through an endless maze of masts and moorings, they finally reached the _Briseis_. She was a 36 foot sloop of polished oak and Teak decks. Running sleek and low amidships, she had a high chin spoon bow and a long and sleek stern with reverse transom. In short, she looked to have curves that any girl would envy.

"She belonged to my father," she began. "He worked and slaved all his life to afford her. We have hookups for water and electricity. There's radio and GPS of course, and a satellite for your digital needs. You should be comfortable on board and there's many fine restaurants nearby."

So – it wasn't a house on the Med but a sailboat she had inherited. Immediately, upon setting foot on the Teak decks, Bond was in love with her.

"She's lovely. And beyond that I'm speechless."

This drew a warm laugh from Tánger. "You get first dibs on a shower."

"I sense an implication with that, but I'll take it nonetheless," quipped Bond.

Immediately, Tánger kicked off her shoes and went to work. She unlocked the hatch to the cabin and cracked open all the hatches to let in the air. Unrolling a canvas tarpaulin, she threw it over a line from the mast to the back-stay, and tied down the corners, to make a sunshade while docked. Extracting necessities and stowing gear, she pulled out a large towel for Bond.

The shower was not hot, but it felt great after being on the road for two days. Washing away the odor and grime, he soaked for a minute before slipping into a fresh Island shirt before returning topside. The wet hair, he slicked back and let the water cool the back of his head. Tánger had two chaise lounge chairs stretched out in the cockpit under the awning.

"I'll watch the fort while you shower," he offered. She smiled then disappeared below decks. Bond reclined and looked around the bay. There was several thousand sailboats moored in every direction. All about the same type and size.

Starting with the heated threats to Bradley, the drive to Royale, and the brush with Le Chiffre, he'd been running on nervous energy. Cocooned in a bay of sailboats, he couldn't imagine a more remote or sequestered setting.

Tánger emerged from below decks all fresh and scrubbed. The hair was still wet and she was always barefoot on board. Bond would come to think in the coming days that she and the boat were connected in this way by a sense of touch and feel. She had a bottle in one hand and two wine glasses, held by the stems between her fingers, in the other.

"It's not cold but it's wet," she said.

"It's perfect," agreed Bond.

‡‡‡‡‡

At first light Bond could hear Tánger's bare feet scampering about on deck. You could hear her un-zipping and pulling off the sail sleeves. Winches were tugging lines and testing the rigging before leaving port. Cool damp air was streaming though the cracked open windows and spilling heavy and wet into the compartments below deck.

Feeling so comfortable enisled in port, Tánger prepared an adequate dinner on-board. They went to a small shop that was close by and bought fresh prawns, butter, and mushrooms. With the food, a case of wine and ice, on a small cart, they took turns pushing it back to the _Briseis_.

In a moment of weakness over dinner, after a second bottle of wine, he had agreed to accompany her to Mallorca. In truth, he'd been not at all hard to persuade. It might delay the hunt for Starling but it appeared that she was safe for the moment. A few days of holiday in the Mediterranean was what he needed, and he knew it, even if M didn't. It would give his back and head a chance to properly heal – besides he was definitely falling to the charms of his beautiful host.

Bond dressed quickly and rushed on deck. The morning air was cooler than normal for this time of year. It would make the mid-day sun all the more tolerable. Tánger had a windcheater over her Tee shirt, khaki shorts and as always when on the deck, barefoot.

"Good morning," he hailed.

"Good morning James – it should be a fine day for sailing."

He watched her winch the jib into a reefed position. It dangled loosely and luffed into the wind. They were almost ready to cast away the mooring lines and wiggle out of port.

"Can I help?" he asked.

"Sure – we're ready to loose the bow line."

The moorings at Old Port made great advantage of onshore or offshore breezes thus sailing into the bay from this position was much easier. Bond un-cleated the line but held it taut. Tánger gently pulled in the slack in the jib until it began to fill. With the sail began to take the wind from the onshore breeze, she signaled Bond to loose the line. Now the _Briseis_ gently pulled away from it's mooring. Winching up a bit of the mainsail assisted the effort. Within a matter of moments they were moving past rows and rows of sail-craft toward the mouth of the bay of Marseille.

They passed the remains of the old Fort San-Jean that once guarded the mouth of the harbor. Free of channel restraints, Tánger unfurled the jib and the hoisted the main into full position. Now out into fresher wind the _Briseis_ began to stretch her legs. She was slippery fast and graceful through the water.

Making course for a point of land opposite the port, they slid through several miles of water effortlessly. With their wind off the port beam, she was now on the fastest point sail. The coastline west of Marseille recessed inward like a huge bowl with the opposite edge of the bowl at Palamós. Sailors knew it as the Gulf of Lion. Hugging the coastline as far as possible, Tánger was forced to steer into blue water as the wind in the deepest part of the gulf played out, just short of reaching Montpellier.

The winds along the Med are given names. From Marseille they had sailed courtesy of the _Marin_ which blows in from the south in the summer season. In the winter the _Mistral_ comes from the opposite direction. Now with coast falling below the horizon, Tánger checked their course and then tied off the helm.

She looked toward her guest, who had been admiring her sailing form all morning.

"There's a vacuum bottle of coffee – would you like some?"

Bond gazed longingly over the sea. "Now, this is living," he said, ginning broadly and offered his cup.

She smiled back and then disappeared down below. Bond took a deep breath of fresh sea air as if it contained medicinal properties. She popped back up with two cups hooked on fingers. She offered one to Bond and removed the thermos lid. She managed to pour both cups half full. Bond held the thermos while Tánger replaced the lid.

They enjoyed the hot drink and Tánger chatted on about the boat and the rigging for their wind and course. Bond daydreamed of the Mediterranean – where Agamemnon took the fleets of Greece to Troy. Where Homer's Odysseus sailed lost for years. Barbary Corsairs also prowled these waters from Tripoli to Corsica.

"JAMES."

"Yes," he said, snapping from his dreams.

"More Coffee?"

‡‡‡‡‡

With favoring winds, they sailed on a close reach all day. The _Briseis_ made good time, passing the Gulf of Roses and L'Escala by the end day's light. Tánger turned the boat toward a small port she had used on this run before. The Bay of Cala Montgo was just in reach, running before a fading wind.

Without enough light or energy to negotiate the crowded docks, they anchored in the shallows. After showers for both, Tánger inflated a tiny rubber dingy with co2 cartridges. With barely enough room for two, Bond climbed down the rope ladder and sat at the stern of the dingy to manage the oars. Tánger followed with sandals in hand at sat backwards in the bow.

"My first command in years," quipped Bond.

"Were you in the navy?" she asked with a comfortable smile.

"Yes," he replied and began to work the tiny oars.

"Good, I'll have more work for you tomorrow."

They tied off the dingy at he end of a long wharf and made their way toward a small restaurant Tánger had used before.

"The Can Miquel," she began, "it's really nothing special but it seems so after a day at sea. They have a variety of seafood from the local catch and several wines from around the area."

"It's sounds lovely – I'm famished."

Under the streetlights, the bright colors of Tánger's summer frock began to stand out. A lovely lightweight dress, the hem moved gently with the summer breeze. The evening crickets and cicadas also followed them all the way to Can Miquels.

Seated on an outdoor terrace, they had a good view of their dinner being cooked over embers and a beautiful view of the sun dropping into the bay.

With only a few biscuits for lunch, they were both famished. The wine they ordered before the meal went straight to Tánger's head. Bond laughed as he could feel it too. The chef prepared grouper and beef grilled on wood embers.

"Damn this is good," he remarked.

"Sorry we didn't have anything on board suitable for lunch."

"If I hadn't slept in for so long – you'd have time to find something," he apologized.

"We'll do better tomorrow," she said, encouragingly.

Bond smiled agreeably. "You sail well. Do you often go out alone?"

"Yes – when the weather is good. When it's not I stay in port."

"Well I've enjoyed this. It's been too long – since I've been on the water. I mean really on the water and not shot out of a torpedo tube or some shite like that."

Tánger laughed. "I'm happy to have you along."

"Have you always kept her in Marseille?"

"Yes. We moved her there when I was very young. It was a favorite place of my mother's. There was an old man who looked after her. He was a friend of my father. Alberto, he called him. When I lost my father at a young age, Alberto took good care of her as a favor for many years. Finally we lost Alberto – but now you see why Marseille has been a favorite port for so long."

"Yes – I do see."

Tánger put her hand over Bond's. "The solo runs were getting old. It's nice to have an extra hand on board."

Bond knew it was a little more to the explanation. Tánger wanted in on ICE. She was hoping Bond would help her.

"Well, I suppose we'll have to get back to business before long."

She paused to reflect. "I suppose."

"Well – we'll get back to that when the time comes, but no sooner. My dizzy spells are less frequent. In a few days I should be back to normal."

"You're still hoping to catch up with Le Chiffre?"

Bond reflected puzzlement. "I'm not sure now. With an organization as diversified as ICE, there must be another way in – maybe in Mallorca. I'd like to talk to Bradley – he's our intelligence gathering chief. It could be that he has information waiting now. I'll need to ring the office soon. Someone will have to pick up my car and they need to hear some of what you've told me. I'm afraid I still feel a sense of urgency."

"If I could be so bold, is it the girl? Is that what's pushing you?"

"She was my partner," he heard himself say.

Tánger paused. Bond sensed a delicate question coming. "Did you love her," she asked coldly.

Bond flushed slightly. It was a simple question, and while none of Tánger's business, he should have a simple answer. But he didn't – and the thought of it embarrassed him. After all, he had never shared anything physical with Starling. Not even a misappropriated kiss after sharing a bottle of wine. But still, there had been something, and he'd tried to put it aside. At least until after the job was over and done. She was young and he had been fascinated by her but at times a little put off. He felt like he had let her down. Her capture and torture was somewhat on him. He was the senior and should have known better.

"Yes," he heard himself say. "I suppose I do. And I need to make amends for this mess."

"There's always another day James."

Bond nodded in silence. There was a slight scent of Tánger's perfume being moved by a fading breeze. He stared at the sea and witnessed a prairie fire of a sunset turn to molten gunmetal blue.

:

* * *

**A/N:** Another tough one, but the next one should be easier - and more fun to write. Thanks for reading!


	16. Things That Go Bump in the Night

****Say You Love Me** **

**Chapter 16.**

**Things That Go Bump in the Night**

Restless, Bond crept out of bed at the first glimpse of morning light. Claustrophobic in the cramped quarters, his need for fresh air on deck had risen to a level of urgency. The cabin door was quickly unlocked by releasing a simple carabiner from the ring latch. The morning sun was not fully up but already the air was muggy, and he could tell it would be warmer than the day before.

Down below he could hear Tánger stirring, and soon the smell of coffee began wafting up to the cockpit. That was quickly followed by the sounds of her taking her shower. Already a few boats were taking sail and it looked to be another beautiful day on the Med. Miss Torre had been warm and friendly the night before but only that. They had sat topside for an hour after returning from dinner, but it had been mostly to enjoy the air and the conversation went quickly vapid. Shortly after she scampered off and that was the end of it.

"Good morning!" greeted Tánger as she bounced up on deck.

"Good morning," echoed Bond. "It'll be warmer today."

"Yes. I can already feel it. Coffee's ready by the way. We should be shoving off soon."

"Can we make Barcelona in this wind?"

"I think so. If the reports are correct it should pick up."

By the time Bond showered and grabbed a mug of coffee, Tánger had the anchor winched and the _Briseis, _with her bow in the wind, was easing into the deeper water. Always barefoot on-board, it was Bond's guess that she could feel every move of the _Briseis_ through her little piggies. She was always a step ahead of the boat in every way.

With the brown tresses safely plaited behind her, Tánger wore a windcheater over a one-piece bathing suit. Bond too, had his trunks on today. After an hour or so of steady beating sun, she came out of the windcheater. He admired her form and figure. Athletic and tanned she was an outdoorsy girl that exuded good health. Straining against tight fitting Lycra, her breasts were not large but arrogant.

It was time for Bond to follow suit and come out of the Tee shirt and catch some sun as well. Tánger immediately noticed the still fresh lattice shaped scars across his back.

"That's frightful," she exclaimed. "You should use sunscreen."

Bond rolled his shoulders into shrug but didn't move to get any.

She scampered off below decks and came back with a tube.

"I think I have just enough Mediterranean genetics to not require sunscreen, but you're different."

"Do you think so," he replied playfully.

"Yes, and those fresh scars need protection."

Bond took the wheel as Tánger lathered his back and shoulder with the oily crème. She handed him the tube and took the wheel.

Digging deep into the Mediterranean until mid-morning, Tánger turned to starboard and rode a fast beam reach all day. By late afternoon they had passed the shipping lanes of Barcelona. As the sun began to set over the Med, they neared a small cove just past the Port de Garraf. Aiming the _Briseis_ at the beach just past the port, Tánger lowered the sails and signaled Bond to drop anchor.

Other than egg sandwiches, the two had had little to eat all day and were starving. Luckily, there were a number of restaurants withing walking distance of the cove.

Tánger popped up from below wearing a lugubrious face. "The desalinator is on the mend and we're running low of potable water," she said. "We'll have to make our showers quick or skip them tomorrow morning."

Bond scrunched his brows. "To hell with it then. Let's swim ashore and save our showers for tomorrow."

Tánger laughed but agreed to swim the short distance to shore. Bond changed into a quick drying nylon shirt and shorts. Tánger did the same with a thin pair of shorts over her bathing suit. Bond put her rucksack, with a large waterproof zip bag and their their sandals, across his shoulders and made his way into the water from the transom steps. Locking up the cabin, Tánger followed him into the sea like a thirsty fish.

The La Cúpula turned out to be a nice stretch of the legs past the tiny cove. Fortunately there was a casual area on the terrace overlooking the sea. It was a bit wasted, this view of the sea. Few sailors who had been on the water all day required one, but it was nice all the same. As with most coastal restaurants on the Med, the service was slow but the food was excellent and they had nowhere else to go.

After a delightful dinner, they were back on board with a few things they'd picked up for tomorrows lunch. Tánger set up the chairs on deck and they watched the stars. There was no shortage of wine on the _Briseis, _and they uncorked a bottle and discussed the possibilities of the next few days.

‡‡‡‡‡

In the aft cabin beneath the cockpit, Bond was the first to hear the pitter-pat of feet climbing on board from the step transom. Anyone else would have thought it part of a dream and paid no attention, but few of Bond's dreams were ever peaceful. He couldn't imagine why he heard it in he first place, but if danger was a bird, it often sang in his sleep. He immediately wondered – had they hooked the carabiner in the latch last night?

With the Walther safely out from under the pillow and into his hand, he crept out of bed. The deck door creak open and footsteps crept down the steps. They had failed to lock the latch after all, but it had seemed like such a friendly port. Slipping through the parted door to the cabin, Bond could barely make out a figure in the darkness. Pausing and perhaps puzzling over what course to take, the figure began to move toward the forward cabin. Feet sliding rather than stepping, Bond eased to a corner within reach of the cabin light switch. There were other feet now – scampering on-board the _Briseis_.

The figure paused then preceded cautiously but not enough. A metal cup went clashing to the floor. One flick of the cabin light switch by Bond exposed the delicate situation they were in. A dark oily figure of a man with an AK-47 was standing at the door to Tánger's cabin. He snapped around to find the source of the light. At the same time Tánger came bursting out of her cabin in a short dressing gown that barely covered her.

The AK-47 then swirled from Bond's direction toward Tánger. When the man began to lift the weapon Bond had no choice. The Walther coughed once, neatly placed a seven-sixty five millimeter slug in the man's temple. He crumpled and fell to the floor, the AK-47 making a horrible noise. By that time Tánger had pulled her own weapon from the dressing gown pocket. The scampering feet on the deck went silent. Tánger and Bond waited for more armed assailants to come running through the hatch with guns blazing. But after several long seconds they heard nothing but sounds of feet running off the end of the boat and the sounds of paddles breaking water.

"It's over," he said.

"What'll we do with him?" she asked.

"Do you have spare towels and plastic film?"

She looked blank but then left and returned with the towels. Bond wrapped the bloody head and dried the floor with the towels. He finished with a turban of plastic wrap around the man's cranium.

"Let's get him topside," he said. "You can help with the feet."

Once again, she nodded, and within a few minutes they had the body topside.

"Can you inflate the dingy? We'll lower him in and tow the body out to sea when we leave tomorrow.

Tánger complied and they had the man lowered into the rubber boat and covered with old tarps. Bond followed Tánger back into the salon and locked the door behind them. He checked the carabiner for sturdiness and turn to look at his host.

"Sorry for that, but I was terribly afraid he would shoot when you surprised him."

"I understand. We were never going to talk him off the boat. Still, I've never heard of pirates on the Med. It's very rare."

"Yes – isn't it. Maybe we were meant to think they were pirates."

"Could be."

She had nothing on under the white dressing gown splattered with blood. There was smears on her hands and on her neck and chest. Even in the mess she was in, she was attractive. Bond knew he was caked with blood..

"Glad we saved the water," he said. "I'll toss you for the shower."

"No need – we'll go together."

Without another word they stripped and got into the shower. They took turns soaping and washing each other until the blood and the stress and the nerves were gone. Only the animal desire for each other remained.

‡‡‡‡‡

Bond was only faintly aware of the morning sun beaming into a cracked open hatch. He rolled over and reached for an armful of Tánger, but she was not there. They had made love many times during the night, and her absence now was unsettling.

Just as he struggled to sit up she was standing over him.

"Get up sleepy head. We have to be shoving off if we're ever to make Palma."

Already dressed, she was in a Tee shirt over her bathing suit bottoms. Bond grunted something and rolled his feet off the bunk.

"Be there in a minute." Tánger smiled and bounced off. Bond struggled up and made it as far as the head. He needed to relieve his bowels but would settle for a good piss instead. Once they were off and to sea, he would visit the head again. He'd had too much seafood over the last few days. He needed something solid in his guts. Maybe in Palma he'd find solid food.

He saw the light in from the porthole window fade and the _Briseis _began to move. Tánger was already winching up the anchor. No doubt she was eager to get the dinghy with the body further out to sea.

He covered his nudity with a pair of shorts and an old shirt. Thinking it silly to wear the shirt, he came out of it and tossed it on his bunk. Tánger was busy working the reefed sails. Her hair that she let out full the night before was tightly tied together in plaits. It would be too easy to get it tangled into a fast moving line and pulled over the side.

Through the course of the night, their wind, which had been from the south, had moved in from the north and picked up a bit. They would be running all the way to Mallorca. A journey of two days to cross the Balearic sea might only take them one day to reach upper coastline. Within a matter of minutes, she had the main full of air and was waiting for Bond to help her affix the Genoa.

They struggled with the large forward sail, but had it flying properly with several minutes of concerted effort. After an hour of digging deeper into the Med. the coastline of Stiges was fading below the horizon.

There was one bit of grim business left. "We must get rid of our guest," he said.

"Don't cut loose the dinghy James. We may need it later."

Bond nodded and stationed himself at the lower step of the stern. He hauled in the line to the dinghy and snapped open the air valve. The rubber boat with dead occupant sank slowly and disappeared into the sea.

"We commit this body to the deep; in sure and certain hope of the resurrection unto eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ; at whose coming, the sea shall give up her dead," orated Bond disingenuously.

"You left have of it out," Tánger mewled.

"It was more than he deserved. We'll drag the dinghy until it's clean and then haul it in."

Several hours of running with the wind found them deep into the Mediterranean with nothing but the sight of blue water in every direction. They had encountered a few fishing boats closer in, and a container ship in the lanes but no sign of anything hostile. Tying the helm while on a port jibe, Tánger went below to bring up the egg sandwiches they had brought aboard the previous evening. With coffee to go along with it, they sat for a quiet breakfast.

"Oh good news, the desalinator is working again. It was something wrong with the generator I think. With any luck we should have enough water for a shower tonight or tomorrow morning."

"Just one?"

"Uh huh –"

"Can we share?" he replied. This drew a testy smile from Tánger.

They continued the long lattice shape trek toward Mallorca. Jibing on port and then starboard, Tánger had a clock in her head and only occasionally checked the compass to confirm their bearing. Always barefoot, she sailed the boat by her little piggies that felt every move the boat made.

It was close to noon when Bond began to feel a little sluggish. Today the boat was surfing the swells rather than cutting through the water. He'd not got much sleep the night before. He was knackered and Tánger could see it.

"You should get some water and go below," she said. "You have a kip then you can replace me."

"Can't we tie her off," he asked, with visions of the two of them wallowing in bed.

She shook her head. "We'll lose time stuck on one point of sail. "We might not make Mallorca."

Bond made a sour face but nodded and went below. The cold water relaxed the edge. Dehydration had been creeping in and had left him gutted. Within minutes of hitting the bunk he was asleep. He awoke an hour later with sounds of clatter on deck.

Feeling much better, he threw on a shirt and bounced up to see what was going on. Tánger was wrestling with a broken block that controlled the tension on the Genoa. She was naked, save for the belt around her waist that fastened her to the lifeline. Working that close to the bow made it a good idea.

"Can I help?" asked Bond. She looked a little startled and then chuckled.

"You might – if you can un-hang this thing."

Bond looked at the block and shook his head. "Doubtful – it's probably the roller bearings stuck. Do you have another?"

Tánger rolled her shoulders into a shrug. Beautiful breasts lifted and then fell back into position with a bounce.

"I'll take the helm while you look." She agreed and went into the compartment under the stern for spare parts and odds and ends. She returned a few minutes later with a suitable replacement. Replacing the broken block, they had the Genoa flying a few moments later. Bond tied the wheel and waited for her return to the cockpit.

She looked puzzled until he threw his arms around her for a kiss. Her back felt hot from the sun. Her skin felt dry to the touch. The outside lighter layer of mouse brown hair was lighter than a few days ago. She was a Siren. One of the famous Sirens of the Mediterranean. Surely M could not blame him for taking the time away from his duties to enjoy this trip.

He gently patted her on the bottom to encourage her below. She paused to get her clothes from under the seats.

"I often sail naked when alone."

"You look beautiful – a sailing goddess no doubt."

"You should try it. The wind on your body feels great," she said with an impish grin and scampered down below.

Bond responded by only pulling off his shirt. Someone had to be decent on-board. He checked their position by GPS. They needed to stay on 170º to reach the top of Mallorca but had been on starboard jibe for too long while wrestling with the broken block. Their position was a little too low. He gently took the _Briseis_ through a jibe to port.

Scanning the horizon, they appeared to be alone on the Balearic sea. They were almost half-way to the island when Bond noticed another craft on a heading in their direction when on the farthest reach on starboard jibe. Digging a pair of binoculars out of the tool cupboard, he trained the optics on the horizon. It looked to be a forty-something foot motor yacht. He would watch for the craft when jibing to starboard.

Two hours later, Tánger came bouncing on deck looking all fresh and recovered. Blowing a little in the wind, her hair was only lightly plaited. She was stuffed into a white tank-top like a sausage. The casual shorts with cargo pockets were the first practical clothing she had worn since leaving Stiges.

She quickly checked the GPS to find their position. She nodded her approval.

"You're doing a good job – keep it up," she said.

"I intend to."

She glanced at him for a moment and went back to business.

"Hopefully we'll reach a good place to drop anchor by late afternoon. We'll have a beautiful sail around the coast to reach Palma the morning after."

Bond reached to snake an arm around her waist, but she slithered playfully away.

"That Genoa could use adjustment," she said and trimmed the sail until the telltales were all flowing perfectly. Instantly, the _Briseis_ picked up speed, neatly cleaving the slow moving swells.

Between the two of them, they kept the boat on course and sailing as fast as possible until the upper coastline of Mallorca was visible by late afternoon. Sailing a tighter course with Tánger at the helm, the motor yacht came into view only twice. She seemed to take notice of the craft but never mentioned it.

Sailing for the Northeast tip of Mallorca, they could make out the coastline and the _Sa dragonera_, a ragged island of land to the west. With the wind fading they would not venture through the narrow strait but search for a comfortable cove somewhere along the northwestern coast.

The _Cala en Bassat_ was just such a cove. Mostly deserted, a few other boats had sought solace close to it's sandy shores. With the _Briseis _snuggled cozily into the cove, Bond dropped the anchor after Tánger dropped the sails. With a little wind left, the stern of the boat swung around, giving them a wonderful view of the sun dipping into the water. With the light beginning to dim, Tánger insisted they go for a swim. Not bothering with bathing suits they peeled out of their clothes and slipped into the warm water like a couple of eels.

Eating dinner on board, Tánger fixed roast beef from a tin with potatoes cut in cubes and fried in butter and onions. It was a simple meal, but surprising delicious and wholesome after a long day of sailing. After dinner they enjoyed a bottle of Taittinger on deck with the chaise lounge chairs laid out and facing westward.

The first stars were beginning to come out when Bond felt compelled to discuss plans for the morrow.

"We'll make Palma by evening?"

"Yes, and maybe a bit earlier. Have you ever been to Palma?" she asked.

"Only once. It's full of quaint history, and beaches for the younger crowd I would think."

"That's fair to say I suppose, but still nice all round."

"I'm still trying to figure how our ICE friends fit in," he puzzled.

"You haven't been to Palma in a while have you?"

"No."

"Well, it's changed since the last time you were there, I'm sure. The use of recreational drugs are legal. They're used in all the clubs now."

"So our friends are supplying them."

"I'm sure of it. If we follow the drugs we'll find them."

"I hope you're right, but I'm not sure I look like the club type. I'd stick out I'm sure."

Tánger looked him over from head to toe in an animated gander.

"I think we can do something with you," she teased.

‡‡‡‡‡

Bond woke in the middle of the night. With Tánger in a deep sleep, he slipped out from under the covers and quietly made his way through the dark to his own cabin. Determined to stand watch on deck he threw on shorts and a shirt. The Walther was down to five rounds and his spare magazines were back in the hotel room. The AK-47 was still on board however, and it and a full magazine was stowed under his bunk.

They had been lucky the night before, and he had no intention of being boarded again tonight. He didn't buy the story about pirates; and even if they were, he'd be a fool to let it happen again. Most likely they were being followed, however unlikely this seemed to Tánger.

Lying down in the chaise lounge with the assault rifle across his lap, he looked up at the stars and then toward the Balearic, which was just off their bow. He scolded himself for nodding off several times. At least he wouldn't be caught below decks if trouble came looking for them.

Soft swells moved the _Briseis_ gently to and fro until Bond was napping once more. He had probably been asleep for an hour when a soft breeze began moving a halyard coupling into the metal mast. It clanked in a familiar rhythm almost like a bell in the night. He awoke to the sound – it was the _Briseis _ trying to warn him.

He could hear two small outboard motors a mile out and moving closer. Bouncing up, he crouched in the cockpit and strained to see the source of the sound. The midnight water was inky black with visibility limited to within a few feet off the bow, with the exception of pin-pricks of starlight reflecting off the waves. If his guess was worth anything there was a mother-ship several miles out that had spotted them with the help of night-vision binoculars. They could have dropped two dinghies over the side with enough men to get the job done this time.

At around a hundred meters the two outboards went quiet. Now paddles slapped the water to make the rubber boats go. Bond strained to see them but couldn't. Slithering over the cockpit and onto the foredeck, he maneuvered around the mast and the rigging to give himself a shot. His plan was to sink the first boat and shoot over the top of the second. With any luck, the occupants of the first boat would be swimming for the second before they had a chance to return fire. Hopefully all this would take place with few as possible shots returned. Tánger would never forgive him if they shot holes in her boat.

As black as the night themselves, the boats drew very close before target-able outlines appeared. Taking aim at the first black rubber silhouette, Bond opened fire with a string of five quick shots.

Rounds hit the rubber hull with sounds of a bass drum. The boat immediately changed shape and melted into the water. He fired another volley of five shots over the trailing boat who had stopped cold. As expected, the returned fire was sporadic and poorly aimed. He could hear nothing hit the _Briseis._ Instead there were slapping and panicky sounds in the water.

He shot over the second boat again and then heard the outboard engine, crank, sputter, and come to life. Realizing they were in no immediate danger, the assailants quickly loaded those trapped in the water and sped off. Bond listened for a few moments as the sound of the boat faded.

"James, what's going on?"

Tánger's head and shoulders popped up through the hatch. She was naked as a jay, adorned with only the compact Beretta.

"Shooting fish," replied Bond.

"What?"

"We had visitors again."

"Are they gone?"

"Yes."

"Well come back to bed," she retorted then ducked under the hatch and disappeared.

‡‡‡‡‡

Bond awoke to the smells of coffee brewing and Tánger putting together a quick breakfast. Giving her a morning kiss, he slipped past the attractive bedhead and onto the deck. He looked over the _Briseis_ for any damages_._ He found a small chunk of oak that a bullet had torn from the bow but nothing that should break Tánger's heart. Anchored only a few feet above their draft depth, the outline of the sunken dinghy was barely visible on the sea floor.

Digging an old diving mask from the cupboard of odds and ends, he slipped off the back of the boat and swam down to the wreckage. He stood on the sharp rock strewn bottom to turn the boat up and over. Another AK-47 was lying on the bottom. He quickly extracted the precious magazine and left the gun. Coming up for air every few minutes, he had collected a few things and returned topside. Besides the magazine from the rifle, there was a penciled drawing of the _Briseis._ Other than a matchbook cover, there was very few clues as to who was following them.

After coffee and fried eggs, they were maneuvering the _Briseis_ out of the tight cove and into deeper water. With fresher wind than the day before, they made good time circumnavigating the island. Hugging the coast, they took in the sights of the Mallorcan countryside. It was late afternoon when they turned the boat on a tack for Palma.

Luffing the sails, they stalled the boat within sight of Palma Harbour. Going below, Tánger radioed Harbor control, and after a bit of negotiation, arranged a safe mooring. With hookups for water and electricity it was like being back at home.

Within minutes they had chaise lounge chairs out and the Bimini top over the cockpit.

"It looks like," began Tánger. "We start by hitting the clubs with the most casual and lenient attitudes on drugs."

"Yeah," said Bond, pouring a glass of Taittinger. "Shouldn't we be checking them out tonight?"

"Are you joking? We'll need clothes for that. Tomorrow morning we go shopping. Tomorrow night we go clubbing."

‡‡‡‡‡

As soon as the merchants and clothiers opened the next morning, they made their way through vendors and dress shops until Tánger was satisfied with a trio of light summer dresses and a pair of sandals. For Bond, he settled for a few new island shirts, dressier shorts, and appropriate footwear.

Killing the rest of the day, they found a nice restaurant for lunch. Being out of practice with the night life in Palma, Tánger broke the news as tactfully as possible.

"The clubs don't open until eleven thirty."

"My god. When do they close," he asked.

"Daylight."

Bond shook his head. "Damn, this will take a little getting used to."

"Yeah, it's a bit like jet lag, but most all the countries with warmer climates do the _same_ thing."

"Yeah, but Christ – eleven thirty."

"We'll take it easy tonight tonight and sleep in tomorrow."

:

_Take it Easy_ she said. It wasn't. They hit half a dozen clubs and finally called it quits at half past three in the morning. They returned to the _Briseis _dog tired and fell into bed. Bond was asleep as soon as his feet left the deck.

Following Tánger's advice they slept until noon so they could stay out later the following night. For what it was worth, she was an excellent dancer. She was liquid on her feet. Of course, they weren't there to dance but it helped them blend into the crowd. Other than blending-in they had turned up little information on who supplied the drugs to the dance clubs.

On deck, the sun was already low enough to be creeping under the Bimini top when Tánger offered Bond more coffee from a stainless steel vacuum bottle.

"What's that," she asked. Bond looked surprised. He was flipping the faded matchbook cover he'd found under the wreck.

"A matchbook cover," he said. "It was under the dinghy; along with the gun and the drawing."

"Can I look at that?" Bond folded the matchbook with one hand and dropped it in the outstretched palm. She examined the faded cover for a few moments.

"That's the logo of the Blue Parrot," she exclaimed. Bond returned a confused look. "It's a club," she said, nodding happily. "It's a clue James. This could make our job easier."

"Good," he said, pulling Tánger into his lap. "That should give us some free time."

‡‡‡‡‡

A fresh breeze with a tint of Tánger's perfume swept past Bond's nose and they made their way through a club-going crowd of revelers. The pace was stop and go and no one in this holiday town ever seemed to be in a hurry.

Looking fashionably cool, Tánger wore a blue wrap held together only with a belt cinching the garment to her tiny waist. Open and airy she had deep Vee front and a split hem that opened as she walked to show long brown legs. An educated guess told Bond, the only inner-wear she had on was a thigh holster for the Beretta compact. The brown hair she wore plaited on the boat was now long and flowing.

The Blue Parrot was curiously nestled off the curb of Trunnion Street a few feet more than most of the buildings. It was a club they had missed the first night. In bright neon, a huge Parrot adorned the front of the entrance. Roughly fashioned, the facade of the club was designed to invoke memories of the _Blue Parrot_ in Casablanca. Entering the building, the fresh sea breeze in the street was replaced by the smell of sweat mixed with perfume, cigarette smoke, and alcohol.

Bond took Tánger's hand and pulled her through the crowd to the bar while sizing the place up for video cameras and bouncers. The trick was to somehow find out as much as they could about the owner without being identified first.

"Two Sangrías please," ordered Bond. "...and clean," he said and pointed a finger.

With the drinks in hand they slipped off to a remote corner.

"We need to find the office – tonight or before hours tomorrow," said Bond.

"And how will we do that?" she asked between sips of the Sangría.

"A diversion would be nice."

"I'll try," she offered. "The entrance to the office seems to be over there, behind that big bouncer. I'll make a complaint," she went on. "I'll say I've been groped by a customer and lead him away. That should give you a chance to slip in."

"I'll probably get caught, but what the hell. It looks like our only play," answered Bond.

"You can say it was a misguided attempt to find the loo."

"Yeah – I like that one."

"I'll keep my fingers crossed and meet you back at the bar."

They grinned at the plan and separated. Bond maneuvered into position and then waited for Tánger to work her magic. He saw her approach the big bouncer and relay her story with arms waving. She pointed to the front of the club, and the bouncer followed her to the scene of the violation.

Bond snaked along the wall leading to a small corridor that appeared to be the likely entrance to the offices. Probably due to off-hours policies, the corridor was dimly lit, with only enough light to navigate. He found the office door at the end. It was locked solidly enough, but the door sat too loosely in the frame. He thought about putting his shoulder to it but found that a bank card would spring the latch.

He locked the door behind him and began to dig through a pile of papers on the managers desk. Within minutes, he found what he wanted. He folded and pocketed the paper and slipped out. Luckily the bouncer was not as his station. He hoped Tánger had not run into trouble.

He quickly ducked into the swarm of revelers and disappeared. Tánger was spotted waiting at the bar where they had agreed to meet. With no other interference, they were out of the club and making their way along the street in the night air.

Curious, Tánger continued to feed Bond glances until he finally returned a smile.

"What'd you find?"

"A letterhead," he said with a grin. "A Mister Sabelotodo Stamos will be visiting his holdings tomorrow at ten AM. I say we give the bastard the same welcome to Mallorca he gave us."

:

* * *

A/N: Hate to leave it hanging but this chapter was getting long enough. Bond and Tánger will wrap up their business in Mallorca next chapter.

Many Grats for reading and the new favs.


	17. A Carfentanil Cocktail

****Say You Love Me** **

**Chapter 17.**

**A Carfentanil Cocktail  
**

Gazing out over the Mediterranean, where a morning sun adorned the sea with diamond tipped waves, Bond and Tánger silently enjoyed the view, sipping coffee under the full protection of the Bimini cover. Neither seemed particularly inclined to break the silence.

"So how do we get him to talk?" Tánger finally asked, "and how do we proceed without killing all the employees."

"I don't know, but we'll have to think of something quick. It'll take time – more than we'll have in the Blue Parrot. We need to get him out of there and somewhere else."

"So how James? In broad daylight, how?"

"We rent a car," he began. "We grab him before he gets to the Blue Parrot. That should work."

Tánger shook her head.

"I don't think so. There'll be someone waiting by the door – and then there's the driver. What – we kill them both?"

Bond shrugged quizzically and pulled a sour face. "What else?"

Tánger ran her fingers through brown hair and then let it fall. "Hang on," she said and disappeared below. She came back up a minute or two later with a brushed aluminum utility case about the size of a small suitcase. She looked around and then opened the case. The contents were cushioned in black foam with cutouts. The was a quart sized steel canister and two sets of hoses and wrenches.

"I was very close to using this on a similar assignment last year – but the target got himself killed before I could try it."

"What is it?" asked Bond, curiously.

"It's a gas – an aerosol anesthetic similar to Carfentanil. Very quit acting. We can inject it into the ventilation system. There's no color and no smell – they'll know what hit them."

Bond shook his head. "That's not the gas the Russians used in that theater fiasco?"

"No, that was Fentanyl – and they used too much of it, but the situation was already very tense. Here, the situation is relaxed. No one suspects anything," she insisted.

Bond shrugged. "I still don't like it. Using that stuff is dicey. It may kill Stamos before we can find him."

"Well, I don't have a silencer for the Beretta – and you don't have one for your gun. When people hear shots the Police won't be far behind."

His argument defeated, Bond leaned back to enjoy the coffee.

‡‡‡‡‡

Desperately needing some kind of disguise, Tánger found a shop selling white dungarees for dock workers at an inflated price. Renting a truck, she stuffed her hair under an old baseball cap, and they did their best to impersonate air-conditioning repair workers. The suitcase kit contained adapters for the hoses, but it still took the two of them over an hour to get it connected and pumping the odorless gas into the fresh air system. How much gas to feed was mostly guesswork. So after what seemed like an appropriate wait Tánger searched the place until she found an unlocked door. With a towel over her mouth and nose she went in. It wasn't long before she came back out showing the _thumbs up_.

An hours later, they had a wobbly and nearly unconscious passenger in the back of the rental car. Tánger watched over him in the back while Bond drove them back to the boat. As the gas began to wear off, they struggled to get him on board.

Feeling like she'd done her part, Tánger took a break to enjoy a beer while Bond interrogated the subject. It was shaping up to be a totally rotten day for Sabelotodo Stamos. He was tied spreadeagled to the rubber dinghy with just enough slack to shift his weight in order to keep the dinghy from flipping.. By mid-day the man struggled precariously as Tánger moved the _Briseis_ out to sea and into rougher water.

Bond was the first to hear his screams.

"Are you ready to talk?" yelled Bond.

"Yes – yes, of course."

"Who do you work for?"

"No one – the _Blue Parrot_ – it's all I have!"

"That's a lie. You distribute drugs for your club and others on the island. You've been tracking our boat for days. Your men tried to kill us," growled Bond.

"I don't what you're talking about."

"Yes you do. And I'll give you another hour to think about it. If you waste any more of our time I'll cut you loose."

"Pull me in. Please, pull me in and I'll talk," he begged.

"Shut up. You get another hour."

Cold as ice, Bond waited exactly an hour amid the man's moans and cries.

"You talk this time or we cut you loose. Do you understand."

"Yes, G'damnit. I understand."

"Who do work for?"

"Let me come aboard, please."

Bond made a play for the line. He uncleated it and waved the end so Stamos could see.

"Answer the questions or I let this go. You might be found, but it's doubtful – very doubtful."

"Okay – okay."

"One last time. Who do you work for?"

"ICE. I work for ICE."

"You saw us at Royale didn't you?"

"Yes. Now, can I come on board?"

"One more question. Who's your boss's name?"

The man moved his head to and fro.

"Answer or I drop the line."

"Le Chiffre – he's as high as it goes as far as I know. That's all I know."

"As it just so happens – Le Chiffre is who I'm after. So you're in luck."

Bond untied and helped the exhausted man on board.

"What's the matter old chap – didn't care for your first command?"

Still exhausted, the man returned a fiery gaze but said nothing. Escorted below, the questioning didn't continue until Stamos was securely tied up.

"Now let's say we pick up where we left off..."

Within thirty minutes Bond had Stamos talking about his involvement in drug supplying. With the _Briseis_ in 'Irons', Tánger would only occasionally go top-side to check for company before heading back. She could barely keep her jaw from dropping. Within an hour he had loosened up enough to discuss his activities with ICE.

"So," Bond broke in. "You stick to your claim that Le Chiffre took Starling?"

The man nodded. "He was responsible for breaking her spirit. He had a long history in prostitution and working with women in illegal trades."

"Is she with him now?"

Stamos shrugged. "I cannot say."

"And what do they plan to do with her?"

"I'm sorry – I cannot say."

"You cannot say… Well, how do I find her then? Can you say that?" demanded Bond. "She was spotted in Brussels."

"Brussels or Amsterdam would be my guess."

"You said she was broken," Bond went on. "In what way? Torture? Rape?"

This drew a sorrowful nod from Stamos. "Why do you ask what will hurt you to hear? I do not know – but yes, those are the tools used in that trade. Pride and a sense of who you were, are gradually stripped away. Everything is gradually removed until the subject accepts the environment and is made to realize that they cannot go back. That they will never fit in."

"That's barbaric," injected Tánger.

"Do you know this for a fact?" asked Bond. "Or is this your best guess."

"It is my best guess."

"You weren't involved?"

"Of course not. That's not my kind of contribution to the organization."

Bond kept a piece of the rope Stamos was tied to the Dinghy. He slapped it against his hand as a reminder. Stamos never took his eyes off it.

"So what's in store for my friend – once she's _broken_ as you put it?"

The man shrugged at the question. "Prostitution… more than likely. She will be used for special clients. High-ranking criminal clients. If she doesn't work out, she'll be killed. Again, she might be offered up as a trade for one of our own. Who knows. Of course, they could threaten to kill her to get something they want? But your side wouldn't go for that would they."

"No," said Bond flatly.

"So, Mister Bond. Is your name really Bond? What do have in store for me," he said while glancing at the rope.

"My name _is_ Bond. If you ever get out of this mess – which I doubt. I want you to tell them who caught you. You'll be given over to the authorities. When we're done," he added and slapped the rope against his palms.

‡‡‡‡‡

After Stamos had run out of answers it was time to hand him off to the local authorities. This could take place after Bond and Tánger made contact with their respective offices. Together, their governments could implore Palma to hold him at all costs.

They waited for an hour for two police cars to show up, and then bade their prisoner goodbye. Tánger glanced at Bond with an inquisitive face. A woman's intuition told her something that Bond couldn't fathom.

"You'll be leaving now. I can see it in your eyes," she said, and he smiled.

"My dear Tánger. I'm afraid my government will insist."

"Well, then we should talk. When are you planning on leaving?" she asked.

He shook his head. "The sooner the better, I'm afraid. Stamos' arrest will be noticed and our possibilities will diminish."

"Let me get you some coffee. You want some?" Bond nodded.

Back with vacuum bottle and two cups, she began. "I got a call last night – on a secure line when you were interrogating Stamos."

Bond furrowed his brows. "So what's up?"

"News from the U.S. We've had a bit of an incident."

"An incident? Sounds like a terrorist attack?"

"Of a type," she said awkwardly.

"What exactly?"

"A coordinated attack on our server centers."

"What's a 'server center'?" he asked with puzzlement.

Tánger leaned back, took a sip of coffee followed by a deep breath.

"Okay – a little background. How much do you know about computers?"

Bond laughed. "Are you serious?"

She smiled. "Have you heard of the _cloud_?"

Bond nodded. "Yes."

"Well, then you're on to something. But a little history first. There was a time, when in the US, that big mainframes were the focus of computing. It was a prime example of centralized computing. This lasted for thirty or so years until networking smaller computers became more cost effective, and many of the big mainframe makers went out of business."

"Today, with foreign competition killing US production, plus rising IT and labor costs going through the roof, things have changed."

"Back to centralized computing?" guessed Bond.

"Bingo," exclaimed Tánger and pointed an index finger. "What we call the cloud is the large server centers running huge compute farms. Along with the virtual sub-servers and software defined networks the whole picture is changing once again."

"Well, _now_ you've lost me."

"Yeah – well, the drawback to this model is a bit fat target the terrorists are willing to go after," she explained. "...and they have."

"Known motives?" prodded Bond.

"Who knows. Disruption working in their favor somehow. Elimination of competition for hire. Shorting of Google or Amazon stocks. Take your pick. We've just barely avoided a number of cyber-attacks on these centers for some time. We also identified this _Shaggy Dog_ that you mentioned. We looked for him but couldn't find him. Until now..."

Now Tánger went quiet and Bond guessed why. He thought about his own situation. His back was healed and the dizzy spells had been gone for days.

"It sounds like it's time for us to get at it."

"Yes, doesn't it."

Bond watched the sun fall below the tall masts along the crowded harbor and then at Tánger. This last week had been a dream.

"Well... surely we can spare a moment," he said and reached for the pretty brunette.

‡‡‡‡‡

Wearing his best second hand clothes, Bond took the first flight out of Palma. Tánger, forced to leave the Breisis moored, was also rushing to catch a flight. She made him promise they would meet when the troubles were over and sail her back to Marseille. He agreed, but as the words were leaving his lips, he knew he'd knew he'd be lucky to ever see her again.

He couldn't get a direct flight and was delayed in Spain for almost two hours. He barely had enough time to shower and change at his flat before the appointment with M.

Moneypenny was delighted to the point of being giddy to see him.

"We didn't know what to expect when you disappeared in France," she mewled.

"Oh Penny, I do need to get you out from behind this desk."

"Yes you do James. You know I was thinking the other day..."

"Double O Seven – come in please."

Money's planned foiled again, Bond spun immediately around.

"Yes sir." He followed the aging spy master into the warm wooden office.

"So what do have for me?" asked M before circumnavigating the large desk.

Bond inhaled a lungful of stale smokey air before proceeding.

"Ran into Le Chiffre at Royale sir..."

"Ran into? Do you really believe it was Le Chiffre?," added M with a wry smile.

"Yes sir – I do, he was playing at the tournament. Turns out – many if not most of the players were members of ICE. One, a Miss Tánger Torre, turned out to be a CIA operative and friends with Felix Leither."

"So that's who you've been spending time with?" asked M while tamping the pipe.

"Yes sir. I took a rather nasty hit in the back of the head while going after Le Chiffre. Miss Torre got a slug in him, I think, but he's still out there. I believe we should go after him. It looks like he may be able to lead us to Starling."

"You're fully recovered then?"

"I think so sir."

M nodded understandingly and perused a preliminary report.

"Good. Get checked out by medical first – we're glad to have you back. This Stamos character you found – how'd you run into him?"

"He tried to kill us – or men he sent did. We discovered a matchbook cover on one of the killers – it has his club logo on it."

M signaled his comfort with the size of things by reaching for his pipe.

"It says here Le Chiffre is expected to be in Brussels or Amsterdam?"

"Yes sir – we think he'll turn up in Amsterdam."

"Why's that Bond?"

"After Royal, we've picked up on his electronic signature – according to Bradley that is. Anyway, he's been leaving a trail in that area."

"Okay, but why Amsterdam?" asked M. Now puffing away on the pipe.

Bond struggled with the answer. "He deals in flesh sir. When he doesn't have anything better to do. Amsterdam is a good area for that."

"And why would he take Starling there?"

"To peddle her off to rich criminals."

M looked confused at the answer.

"For sex sir – she's totally turned, according to reports. The captors torture and humiliate the victim to the point of..."

"You can spare me the details Bond," interrupted M. "I know how brainwashing works," he said and put down the pipe, shaking his head. "In the old days it was different. You just hoped they didn't give away state secrets. Now it's a whole other game."

"Yes indeed sir."

"What about your new friend, this Miss Tánger Torre? She's back in the US?"

"Leaving this morning, I think."

"So they're convinced the attacks on these server centers is the work of ICE?"

"They believe so sir. She said they've been under cyber attacks from this hacker named Shaggy Dog."

M was fiddling with the pipe again.

"Bond, I want you to proceed to Amsterdam," he declared.

"Yes sir," Bond replied and started out of the chair.

"And Bond..."

"Yes sir."

"I want you to kill the bastard this time."

Bond paused in the doorway to Universal Exports.

"You can count on it sir."

:

* * *

A/N: Sincere grats for the new favs and follows. While this is still a hard story to compose - it may be getting a bit easier. :)


	18. Your Darling Miss Starling

****Say You Love Me** **

**Chapter 18.**

**Your darling Miss Starling**

Physically, Bond felt better than he had in ages. The nagging dizzy spells were gone and he felt clear in the head. The wounds along his back were good as forgotten. The stress for being responsible for a partner was also behind him. Rested, he was ready to see action again.

The mission now was clear and simple. Find Starling and kill the bastard Le Chiffre. This time the purveyor of flesh would not get away. This time, the injury to the man's forehead would be real; it would be fatal. He had stopped by to visit Q before his flight out of London. The old quartermaster always had a few gifts for him before he left. Apart from the old days, everything today seemed to exist in the form of a phone or computer app. Definitely the times had changed.

He thought about Starling and wondered if she had really 'turned'. He tried not to think about what they had done to turn her. He tried not to think about what she had endured. She had known, after all, like everyone else that enters the service, the inherent dangers that went along with the job.

Still, he couldn't always shake it from his mind. He remembered all too well their last evening out before de Cheverny. He could have listened to her go on all night. Stories of her storied past had not been too dramatic, but he had found them fascinating nonetheless. They had a fresh touch to them that he'd found amusing. Would she ever be able to get that youthful charm back? He didn't know. He just hoped she lived long enough to get the chance.

###

Schiphol airport was more like a shopping mall than an airport. The damned place was always crowded, and while on business travel Bond hated crowds. He did his best avoid travelers coming out of shops with bags. He could visualize the near collision and the assassin's gun jumping out of the bag – the gunshots and the screaming crowd – the faces looking down as he lay on the ground struggling for his last breath. He avoided all this by walking the middle of the corridors and aisles until he reached baggage claim. As luck would have it his scant luggage was the last to roll down the conveyor.

Accepting no more taxis, he waited for a _company_ car to take him to his hotel. Across concentric canals that circled the city, he thought of Dante's Inferno as they crossed the narrow waterways, each one taking them closer to the heart of the city.

The driver was a little younger than most the company normally used. With ear-buds in both ears he rocked out all the way to the _The Grand Amsterdam_ hotel. Bond tipped the young man who never said or heard a word above the music he was plugged into. Bond had stayed at _The Grand_ several times in the past. It was centrally located and had an old world charm that was still perfect for Amsterdam.

After checking in, he took a few minutes to examine the room, and collect his bags. Moneypenny had already left a message with more news of his target. Before going downstairs, he had a good shower and waited until sunset to venture down for a drink.

Originating from Bradley, Moneypenny's message said Le Chiffre had been electronically fingered near the_ Holland Casino Amsterdam_. He'd also been made in the Red Light district on the day before. Bond pondered over this and a shaken but not stirred Vodka martini.

He briefly thought of his missing partner, and wished he had Starling's photographic gift for faces. Many of the ICE henchmen he had met at Royale, but there was no way he could remember all of them. Just to go barging into the local casino would likely get himself into trouble and turn up nothing. He would have to wait for Bradley's myriad of electronic surveillance to turn up something more solid. Once a possible hit was located, then he would go after it. It was a sorry way to go about business he thought, but it was the best chance at the moment.

Bond sat, looking at his drink, and feeling sorry for himself and a bit bored. He knew in his gut that Starling's situation would not last forever. At some point in time she would do something to piss them off, or perhaps they would simply grow tired of her. He knew he had to act quickly, and sitting around like he was doing now was as painful as any part of it.

Bond's depression was short lived. When the information began to come in, it was fast and furious. He was soon hot on the trail. Intercepted phone messages said Le Chiffre was to take Starling to a 'client'. That was the first real break, but he and Bradley's staff of hackers had been working for nearly two days straight.

‡‡‡‡‡

There are moments in the life of a secret agent when determination and the call of duty begin to give way to self preservation and common sense. For James Bond, one of those moments was occurring right now. It should be a simple thing to pull off. Le Chiffres' automobile would be making its way down International Boulevard before the light of dawn. The silver Mercedes sport coupe should be easy to spot and the Aston Martin should be more than a match for it. But the devil was in the details and the tip to intercept Le Chiffre had not come without a price. He had been going for twenty eight hours straight, and he was past tired. It could have been one or two too many martinis. It could have been too many custom made Morlands but either way his vision was beginning to blur and sleep deprivation was hammering at his head.

If he called off the hunt tonight then it might take days or weeks of work to get this kind of opportunity again. But if he continued and made a mess of things then he might find himself completely out of the running – or dead. Bond took several deep breaths and felt the pulse slow to a normal beat. He felt the reassuring tug of the ancient Walther against his jacket. A quick glance at the Rolex and the second hand seemed to be moving too slow. For years, the gun stood bravely between him and the specter of death. And on occasions like this it was one of his dearest friends. M had tried for years to persuade him to upgrade. 'The Ballistics are dismal, it holds too few rounds, and impossible around airports', he would say.

Bond took another deep breath and his vision cleared. Right on cue, a silver Mercedes coupe flew past with a single passenger. He reached for the ignition button and pressed. After a brief growl of the starter, twelve sirens began their throaty song. He pulled out of the alley and entered the deserted Boulevard and pressed hard on the pedal. Acceleration pushed him back into the seat...

It only took a few moments of acceleration to fall inconspicuously behind the Mercedes. Not so close that Mercedes' driver would know he was being tailed. Unfortunately at this late hour he was about as inconspicuous as the cherry on the crème pie. After a few blocks of this, the driver yanked the Mercedes off the wide-open road into a tight alley and gunned it.

Bond stuck to the Mercedes like glue. When the time was right, he would try and pull up beside the Mercedes and force it off the road. When Le Chiffre got out, he would kill him. Just thinking of the bastard's likely plans for Starling made his blood boil, and he was wide awake now.

They ran through alleys and side-streets with no chance for Bond to get up beside the car. There were a few gimmicks in the Aston Martin that Q had installed. One, was a low angle charge firing projectiles that would take out the tires of the vehicle in front. Bond had opened the weapon system console and was ready to press the red button when the Mercedes turned off the narrow street and hit a wide open four lane. Black exhaust blew out of the back of the car as the driver put the pedal down. As the silver Mercedes opened the distance, Bond was obliged to push the Aston Martin to the limits.

The speed went to one hundred, then to one-twenty and on. The canals were racing by like fenceposts as Bond jumped the canal bridges at one hundred and sixty. The Mercedes was running out of steam as Bond edged the front of the Aston Martin around the rear fender. They would have to slow down before he could force it off the road.

In his peripheral vision, Bond spotted an explosion of orange from somewhere off the road. Now something, with a path traced in blue flame, made a fast bee line toward his car. That was the last cognitive thought he had. With an explosion in the front of the Aston Martin, he lost control and the car began to tumble, rolling over and over with bits flying everywhere. Slammed around inside the car, Bond was knocked cold.

His head spinning in and out of a dream, Bond awoke sometime later with an ammonia inhaler stabbing into his brain like a dagger. After a few syllabic grunts, backhands to the face followed the ammonia. Two men began pulling him to his feet. When there were no screams of protest they reasoned there was no broken bones and threw Bond into the back of a car. He felt a needle go into his arm and then all went black.

‡‡‡‡‡

Bond awoke, not knowing how long or how far he had gone; strapped to a chair with his shirt stripped off, he was very groggy. Whatever they had used to knock him out lingered like a lead weight in his brain. The chair was comfortable enough, except for the nylon cable-ties that were tight and digging into his ankles and wrists.

Having trouble keeping his head up, he looked about a room that he appeared to be in the center of. He was surrounded by tight fitting desks with smoke grey glass divider panels. It looked like an avant-garde teleconference center without the phones. There were wild prints on the walls covered by metallic looking wallpaper. Windows were large but way above the normal line of sight. They provided only a pleasant view of the sky. He could see no doors or signs of a possible escape route.

With hope put off until later, Bond's head fell and he drifted off.

He was somehow aware of a passage of time, when footsteps woke him from the drowsy rest he was unable to avoid. The footsteps stopped a few feet away. He raised his head and squinted. There was a bulbous face staring down.

"What did you come back for Mister Bond?" said the face.

Bond could only grunt. The figure took a few steps away and returned with a pitcher of ice water he threw in Bond's face. He shook it off and opened his eyes wide and full. It was Le Chiffre.

"To take back Starling – eliminate ICE," managed Bond, "...and to see you dead."

Bulbous face laughed. "It was all for nothing then. First of all, you'll never damage ICE. Second, the Starling you seek is gone now. She's soon to be one of us."

Bond studied the round face and ruddy complexion. The major features had been erased by plastic surgery but failed to hide the Le Chiffre's identity.

"I don't believe it," spat Bond.

"You will believe it," argued Le Chiffre. "In time..." With this last insult, the man spun on one heel, leaving Bond to himself and still tied to the chair.

It was hours later when another pair of footsteps entered through a door invisible from Bond's perspective. The measured stride in high heels stopped finally at his chair. Bond raised his chin from his chest and looked up. It was a woman. Even with blurry vision she was immediately attractive.

She was tall and authoritative even in the way she stood. She was dressed in a tight metallic colored business suit with a short hem. She had hair cut into a rigid looking pageboy silvered with age. She was maybe forty, damned good looking with well built athletic legs.

"Well, Mister Bond" she began dragging over the words with a hardened voice like stainless steel. "We meet at last."

When Bond didn't respond she continued. "Come come Mister Bond. Don't be shy. I don't have a lot of time here. I have a deal for you, but you'll have to talk."

"Who are you?" he managed.

"That's an excellent question to begin with. And I would expect no less from the great James Bond. Of course you'd want to know who you're dealing with so I won't waste time. "

She stood there smiling with arms folded across her chest. Her legs were planted in a wide stance.

"They call me Doctor B. The 'B' is from an old family name long since out of use. It doesn't really matter. What does matter is that I am the CEO of ICE."

Bond studied the figure a little more thoroughly. "I would have expected a man."

Her face turned stoic. "If you're trying to piss me off, that's unwise of you. I have come to offer you a chance. But if you..."

"Let's hear it then," injected Bond.

The features relaxed and she managed a good looking but rather cruel smile.

"That's better," she began. "We've decided to offer you a chance – a chance to live. Do want to live Mister Bond?"

"Who doesn't?"

"Of course. And all you'll have to do is join us."

"That's all? Where do I sign up?" he quipped.

"Well… and one more thing."

"What's that?"

"You'll have to give us information concerning the Americans. I'm sure your man Bradley can help you with this," she said with a twisted grin.

Bond laughed or tried too. It soon turned into a cough. In a moment his throat was clear.

"Go to hell. And take ICE with you."

"Of course we expected these sentiments Mister Bond. But you must think it over. It's your only chance you know. _Your darling Miss Starling_ has wisely decided to come aboard."

"Bullshit – she was tortured into submission."

She nodded with lips drawn thin as if foreseeing the thoughts of a wayward child that needed discipline.

"You can believe what you like," she drawled. "You'll have a chance to see her later. And you can make your mind up then," she said and tidied the firm hairdo. "Le Chiffre will deal with your answer and I hope you do come to your senses."

With that she managed a brief professional smile and dug in one of her high heels to turn away. With a long stride and a few clacking steps she was through the door and gone.

It was an hour later before Bond heard the door open again. He opened his eyes and looked at his hands that were now puffy and blue. He dropped his head as two sets of footsteps neared. It was Le Chiffre again accompanied by another set of high heels, but not those of Doctor B.

"Look at me Bond," ordered the ruddy face.

Gradually Bond pulled his head up to see Le Chiffre and a familiar figure he had longed to see.

"Starling!" he greeted, but she didn't respond. He then scrutinized her appearance for clues. She was certainly attractive but different now. She was thinner with facial features that were almost gaunt. The pleasant outdoorsy look and brown complexion had gone pale and chalky. The long brown hair was cut short and resembled a pixie cut. She wore a business suit similar to Doctor B with an even shorter hem. The shoes were almost too big. The look in her eyes was missing the presence of the old Starling. Something was vacant – gone from her appearance. It was the typical look of the brainwashed victim. Bond knew it, and he knew it well – having been a victim himself at one time.

Starling's appearance told a story he didn't want to hear. They had, in all probability, begun by shaving her head. She had been starved, tortured, and probably gang raped until she gave up on herself and everything she'd ever been and everything she'd ever wanted to be. The victim, seeing no way back would follow their captors to a new but horrid life.

Ruddy face quickly invaded the moment of silence with shaking jowls. "Now see here Bond. Your dear friend is one of us now. If you want to live you'll follow our directions."

Bond knew G'damed well he wasn't going anywhere Le Chiffre wanted him to. But he'd be a fool not to listen to the bastard's plans.

"What directions?" he asked, doing his best to pretend.

"Doctor B told you – did she not?"

"She mentioned information on the Americans. Ransom. You know our department doesn't respond to such. And Just how am I supposed to get it? It's not that easy."

"No, of course not," he began. "You'll have to have a story they want to hear – something they want to believe. You can tell them you've found Starling. You will say you can get her back if you do us favors."

"Do you think for a moment M will fall for that?"

"He might – no he'll have to, if he wants to see his beautiful agent again."

"But we know she's no longer his beautiful agent. Don't we," mocked Bond.

Le Chiffre ignored the comment. He reached inside his jacket lapel and extracted a few sheets of A4 folded longitudinally. He dropped the papers in Bonds lap.

"These are the points we want to discuss. You have certain knowledge of the Americans, and we would like you to share this information. If you do this, we'll honor our bargain. You and Starling may go free."

Bond could see the picture now. He would have to exchange the information for Starling. They were probably tired of her and would kill her after Bond left. They would kill him after the staged exchange.

"I came for Starling," answered Bond. "I'm not leaving without her."

His enemy looked furious. "You're not leaving at all," he fumed with puffy jowls shaking. "Do you understand," he demanded.

This was the second time Bond had been a prisoner of Le Chiffre. His hatred of the man was growing beyond anything he could have imagined.

"Go to hell."

Le Chiffre pondered for a second. His response was a little puzzling at first. "Very well Bond – I'll show you then." With this remark, he reached into the other lapel and extracted a chrome plated 1911. He handed the gun to Starling. She took the gun like an obedient automaton.

"You see Bond – she is one of ours now, and you've been mistaken about a great many things."

"You can't win em all," quipped Bond.

"Is this your final answer then?" he demanded angrily.

"Fuck yes," answered Bond, eyes flashing red.

"Kill him," he casually instructed Starling.

For a brief moment Starling appeared unsure of the command. She looked at Le Chiffre for confirmation but his angry countenance was all she needed to reassure his meaning. Robotically she stepped forward to within several feet of Bond and pointed the gun to his forehead. She pulled the hammer back until it stopped on a solid click-clack.

"So how does it feel Mister Bond," taunted Le Chiffre, "to be killed by one of your own?"

"Better than you doing it – you fucking coward. Besides it was my error that led her here. I'm not afraid to die."

"Give me the gun!" demanded Le Chiffre. Starling paid no attention to his command, but she appeared conflicted and her eyes had a far away glazed-over look. She seemed frozen in place. Her knuckles went white as she began to squeeze the grip safety.

"Starling!" he ordered again, his voice raised. "Give me..."

Starling spun around on one foot, the gun now raised to Le Chiffre's head.

"Did you hear me – give me the gun," he repeated and made a move toward the solemn figure.

"NO!" she said, but Le Chiffre carefully placed his hand over the barrel. But before he could get the gun away there was an explosion and he grabbed his stomach.

The man grimaced horribly, with a look reflecting pure shock and awe. Starling paused only a moment and put another shot into the man, this time between his eyes.

She looked at Bond helplessly. It was if there was some great internal struggle eating away at her. She dropped the gun and then passed out, falling to the floor into a heap.

It took bond a moment or two to process the situation. It was his chance to go and he knew he had to move, but he seemed stuck frozen to the chair. Starling had been overtaken by demons and was still out cold. He knew Le Chiffre was famous for carrying a knife. He had to get to it.

Quickly, he rocked back and forth until he felt the chair go over. He heard and felt the wooden frame splinter and break; enough so, that he could drag himself and the wooden remains of the chair over to Le Chiffre. He was able at last to go through the man's pockets. With the knife in hand he quickly struggled to sever the first cable-tie. The rest came off quickly, and Bond grabbed the gun. He needed a phone, his was gone and there was none in sight.

Somewhere in the struggle Bond had heard a helicopter on the roof. Was it Doctor B making good her plans to leave? The chrome 1911 was lying on the floor bright and shiny light like a fresh epiphany.

With Starling still unconscious he raked the gun into his hand and turned his attention to the moon faced corpse. He struggled to get the man's jacket off without dragging it through the growing pool of blood. He quickly put it on and stowed away the knife and gun. How many would stand between him and the target? His phone and the ability to communicate with headquarters was sorely missed. He'd have to signal with an open line when this business was finished.

Dragging a chair to the line of high windows, he spotted the helicopter. It was on the opposite roof of the 'L' shaped building. He'd have very little time to find his way there. He took another look at Starling. With no time to rouse her, he punched through the door and made his way to the roof.

The first guard that questioned his intentions was shot in the head – as well as the second. He was in the wing of the building directly under the helicopter and frantically searching for a route to the roof.

The helicopter rotors were spinning up as Bond burst onto the roof. He could make out Doctor B behind the two pilots. The skids were just beginning to lift when he raised the 1911 toward the chopper. With the helicopter blowing up a cloud of dust and pebbles from the roof, he took shots at the stabilizer and the cockpit but the thing pulled away gracefully. Bond could only watch and admire the pilot gracefully peel off, taking his valuable passenger to safety.

He suddenly remembered Starling and her lying on the floor. Fearing she might still be in danger he raced back to the rooftop door.

:

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A/N: Almost done now! One more chapter to wrap it up?


	19. Secrets

****Say You Love Me** **

**Chapter 19.**

**Secrets**

Staring helplessly at the empty helipad, Bond took a parting glance at the chopper peel away before taking action. Moving quickly past the two dead guards, he cautiously re-tracked his movements through the corridors and to the room he'd left Starling. For a moment he felt a tinge of fear as he pushed the door open.

She was conscious, and awake, and sitting on the floor with legs extended. Like a child in a playpen she sat there looking with an empty wonder at the things around her. She didn't seem to notice Le Chiffre or the ever growing puddle of blood he lie in.

"Starling," he called, but she hardly noticed. He wanted to grab her by the shoulder to help her up but something told him that would be a mistake. He called out again but she seemed to be cocooned in a fog of some kind.

"We have to go – Sam! Samantha! We have to go."

"Sure, let's go," she replied without making any effort to move.

"How many are there – between us and the door?"

She dismissed the question with a wave of the hand.

"Who knows. Maybe ten to twelve – well armed." Finally she looked at Bond with a clarity she'd yet to display and seemed to understand the problem at hand. "James you go without me."

"Hell you know I can't do that. Now get up – let's get the hell out of here."

"To where? They'll kill us."

Bond looked around the room. "Where are my things? Do you know?" he asked. She waved her arm around her as if to suggest they were somewhere in the room.

She had to be drugged. She was thin – much more than before but her skin was taunt and reddish-pink in color. In a few minutes, more of the enemy would be coming through the same door. Somehow he would have to protect himself and his incapacitated partner.

Scrounging around through the desks, he found his jacket and shirt lying across a chair. His gun and phone were in the one of the drawers. Throwing off Le Chiffre's jacket like it was diseased, he put on his own and began dialing the hot number for the 'office'.

A dry voice answered. "Universal Exports."

"Bond here," he began. "In a bit of a spot."

"Hold on sir – acquiring your GPS signal now – okay we've got it. Proceed."

"I say we're in a bit of a spot. Le Chiffre is dead – my partner is incapacitated. Expecting more hostiles at any moment. stop Prime target left helipad three minutes ago. stop"

"Can you describe the helicopter?"

Bond shook his head. It wasn't as clear as it should be.

"Black and white markings – looked like a Bell 429. Read tail numbers. stop"

"Get yourself into a defensive position Bond. We'll be there as soon as we can," ended the dry voice and rang off.

Bond gathered Starling up and moved away from the door to a safe corner to hide.

Bond guessed M was being briefed of the situation right now. In a few moments M would relay the story to the chief of security in the Netherlands. It would be up to M to persuade the chief to action. In the mean time, he and Starling would do their best to avoid friendly fire by huddling under a convenient desk.

‡‡‡‡‡

Bond never thought he would admit it, but the inside of M's office looked like a damned cheery place. The dark grainy walls felt particularly warm and protective.

"Thank you for getting us out sir."

"It was nothing more than my job Bond," replied the old man. Bond made no comment to challenge the remark, but he knew it wasn't true. It took a superlative effort by someone to get them secured as fast as they did.

"It was first rate sir," he went on.

"It would have been a hell of a lot better if we could have got that helicopter. Unfortunately their chief of security wouldn't take the risk on my word."

"Well – at any rate, it's good to be back sir. How's Starling?"

"Good – but she'll be under convalescent care for some time. From what I've been told – physically she's fine."

'Physically she's fine', he said. But nothing about her state of mind.

"I suppose you'll be wanting to see her," added M.

"Yes sir – when a visit would be best suited of course."

The old man nodded understandably.

"James, I have another issue here," he began and lifted a folder from his desk. He wore a troubled expression to match the gray tweed smoking jacket. He let the folder drop back down on the desk and reached for the pipe. Clearly a sign that further conversation would be required.

"And what is that sir?"

"It's Bradley. After your release, he filed this report… no a complaint really. It states clearly that you threatened to kill him – at gunpoint."

"He lied to us sir. Hell, he lied to all of us. He knew – or strongly suspected what he was getting us into."

"And why would he do that Bond?"

"In the simplest of terms: we were bait sir. And he was watching from his eye in the sky – his technical tower. Our movements, which he made sure was being watch by the enemy, provided the clues he wanted to watch them. We were the key to the puzzle he couldn't crack on his own, and we were expendable – of course."

M leaned back and took a long pull from his pipe.

"Some of his methods are certainly new to us; there's no doubt of that. But this theory of yours is pretty advanced work for a field agent."

"This chief of ICE mentioned him by name sir – when she thought I'd ever see the light of day again."

"Can Starling corroborate any of this?" M fired at Bond, but Bond looked at the floor as the room went spooky quiet.

"Well," continued M, "you know I can't ignore this," he said and tapped the manila folder with the stem of his pipe. "You know I'll have to take some kind of action."

"Sir," injected Bond. "We've already had this discussion. And we both know my career is over."

"Not necessarily – and I've already decided on a course of action. You'll be demoted until this thing blows over – but that's all. Now about Starling: she'll be out of action until the doctors say she's fit for duty. That's all fine and good, but I need something more."

"Something more?," questioned Bond as M fiddled with the pipe.

"Yes, you worked with her directly before this happened. I assume you got to know her?"

Bond squirmed slightly in the wooden seat. "Only professionally sir."

M waved a dismissing hand. "Fine, fine, but you do know her. Now while you're demoted – I'd like you to work with her on another case until she's fit for action."

"Another case sir..."

"Yes, and I'll make sure it's not another Pandora's Box like this last one. If Bradley pulls this shite again, it will be me aiming a gun at his head."

"I appreciate the offer sir – but all the same, I think my days in the service are over. I was a double O, and worked best when working alone. I don't have a talent for working with a partner and obviously made a mess of the last one."

"Your not being fair to yourself Bond. That business at Cheverny was not your fault. That you got out alive was a minor miracle. And splitting up was your best play. At least the report seems to strongly suggest it." M tamped the piped and let the comment linger. "...and you got her back. Not a bad piece of work if you ask me," he said in earnest but failed to hide a grin.

Bond spotted the grin. "What are you getting at sir?"

"That maybe – just maybe taking a partner made you a better man."

Bond grunted something unintelligible and the sly grin from M turned into a smile.

"I'll tell you what Bond. If you take this assignment and get Starling back into shape, I'll see that you get you old job back."

Bond thought the choice of words a little odd. M fiddled with the pipe but never took his eyes off Bond.

"My old job?" said Bond.

"_Yes_, your old job."

"No more demotion?"

"No. Back to full status."

Bond nodded deeply. "I don't understand sir – this whole business. If you don't believe Starling will bounce back then why not put her into a different line of work? God knows, she gone through a lot."

M stiffened. "Look Bond – do you accept the assignment or not. It's either this or polishing a chair with your arse in the training division."

The look on Bond's face went instantly apologetic.

"Yes sir. I'll take the job."

Bond rose from the chair to excuse himself, and suddenly M softened a bit.

"Look," M said, stopping Bond at the door. "Maybe it would be best if I – if I told you something. I knew her people from before the war. He mother and grandmother both – and I feel like I… well, just take the damned job."

"Yes sir," said Bond and shot out the door. He had a wry grin of his own now.

‡‡‡‡‡

It was a special convalescent center used by the service. All the amenities of a five-star resort set in a wonderful out of the way and quiet location. Bond pulled the Aston Martin through the long gravel drive and past the towering cedars. His was the only car in the visitors parking spots. He hated hospitals. No matter what you called them they all smelled the same.

His instructions were to make an appointment to speak with a Doctor Martin before seeing Starling. The concierge directed him down a long corridor to an office facing an idyllic scene in the very back of the building. The door was open. Bond rapped on the frame. The busy doctor looked up from his desk.

"Good morning Mister Bond. Please sit down."

Bond managed a reciprocating smile and took a seat in a huge leather Chesterfield one would expect to find in a five-star hotel bar.

"Good morning doctor. How's Miss Starling?" he asked, not missing a chance to get right to the point. Doctor Martin ignored the question. He may have felt Bond was being too direct, and Bond knew he was too direct.

"Very well," came the insincere but obligatory reply.

Bond waited for Martin to begin the questions he knew the man had to ask.

"You knew Samantha well," he began.

"Well enough not to call her Samantha," Bond replied, but instantly regretted the quip.

The doctor smiled. "Very good. What does she normally prefer?"

"I called her Starling as a rule. We tried to keep it professional. I used Samantha only when I was desperate to get her attention."

"You said you _tried_ to keep it professional?"

"_Yes_ – and we did," Bond immediately answered.

"Forgive me for prying," replied the doctor with a warm smile. "You see Miss Starling has gone through an attempted transformation by her captors… Brainwashing, some call it."

"I understand," injected Bond. "I'm very familiar with the process, having been a victim of it myself."

Doctor Martin raised a brow then proceeded normally. "We've been administering medications that induce a short term memory loss – particularly those connected to emotions that would involve relationships and things of that nature. She's been through quite a traumatic experience, so when you see her try not to pry or push her to remember. Her memory will return. I wish some of it would not. But at least it will come back at a time when she's better adjusted – from an emotional perspective."

Bond sat stunned and silent for a few moments. He'd completely expected to hear these kind of comments but it didn't make them any easier to handle.

"Yes, of course sir."

Doctor Martin smiled warmly. "Good. Then I'll take you down to see her."

They crossed several wood paneled corridors and turned down another to stop at a door with 'S. Starling' embossed onto a name placard. Doctor Martin knocked on the door, and after a faint answer, instructed Bond to remain outside while he entered.

You could hear a faint conversation going on inside. There was also sounds of a door opening and blinds being pulled. Finally the doctor popped back out with a look of relief. He motioned for Bond to enter and then conveniently disappeared.

Bond gently pulled the door ajar and peeped in. Foregoing that, Bond eased into the room. It was huge and not at all like any convalescent or hospital room he had ever seen. Starling was not in her room but on a terrace. Two large doors had been thrown open to the terrace. There were many windows and the room was awash with tons of natural light. One wall was covered in books that loomed over a generously sized desk.

Starling was reclining in one of two chaise lounge chairs overlooking a rocky stream flowing from a small copse of wood. Bond paused to take in the scene and finally fell into the inviting chair beside her.

"So this is how you've been wasting company time," he quipped.

She looked up from the idyllic scene to take in Bond for few moments.

"It's really quite boring actually. They put me here to impress the visitors I think."

"How are you Sam?"

"I'm not really sure James. I can't remember a damned thing."

"Sometimes I wish I couldn't. Consider it a blessing."

She nodded, and he took a moment to look her over. The lithe limbs, once rippling with muscle, were thin like they belonged to a lingerie model. The pixie hair cut gave her a cute look though. There was an exercise bike off to one end of the terrace with a white towel hanging over the handlebars.

"So how's the bike?" he asked with a tone of casual concern.

"Draining! They have me riding the damned thing every day and drinking huge protein shakes."

"Does it help?"

She shook her head. "It seems to sometimes – other times I'm not so sure. These drugs they give me, I know they mess with my memory."

"It's only to help you..." he quickly injected.

"I still know James – the things they don't want me to. I let them think the medicine helps, but it doesn't really."

Bond wondered if this was a ploy to get him to discuss her suspicions. "You'll be back to normal in no time," he replied, trying his damned not to sound phoney.

She looked down at herself.

"Oh… we both know that's not likely. I'm pretty much a wreck James."

"That's bullshit and I won't listen to it," he protested.

This made her smile. "Alright, I won't talk about it. If you insist."

"I do."

"Well, it's not the way I thought this assignment would end, I'll tell you that. I do remember you at our dinner in Paris. I haven't forgot that. It was pretty clear I think – what as on your mine. Now it's all different. Your words of encouragement are welcome but it's not exactly the way I had things planned."

"So how _did_ you expect things to end?"

"Why ask – it doesn't matter now," she mused.

"It might. Believe me, it might."

"I thought we would end with dinner and a few drinks. Only then I would stop being such a bitch… and then later I would hear you say the words other women never hear from you."

"You'd hear me say what Sam?"

"Say you love me… of course."

"I would have never thought that. I mean – you never..." he stumbled for the words.

"You could have said it in Paris James. And the result would have been the same."

"I couldn't. We had a job to do."

"I know. And that was sweet of you but old fashioned. But now you know what the problem was. Women are different these days James, but you couldn't see it. Of course none of that matters now. It didn't end the way I thought, and I'm a total wreck."

Bond looked at the copse of woods and the stream beyond.

"Well, I can tell you something," offered Bond. "Something M told me. He wants us to go out as a team again."

She shook her head until the ends of the pixie cut lifted to her ears. "I can't. It's over for me now."

Bond heaved an exasperated sigh and jumped from the lounge chair.

"Are you leaving?" she asked.

"Yes, can you show me out?"

She moved slowly to her feet to comply. Bond grabbed her – and they hugged for some time. He began with kiss to her forehead and then a full kiss.

"I wish I could feel that," she said. "But these drugs won't let me."

"They won't last forever – and you will be back."

She shook her head, but not with the venomous response as before.

"Yes you will. I'll find you and kill you if you don't. You shouldn't have told me your secrets, but you have, and you can't take them back."

"You're a bastard," she spat.

"Promise me. Promise me you'll do your best to get back."

She looked into his eyes for a long time.

"You old bastard."

‡‡‡‡‡

The weeks went by and Bond visited Starling every Saturday. Her progress was slow, and some weeks there was none at all. But she was coming around and Bond could see it if she couldn't. The drugs interfered with her progress, but finally the doctors saw enough of the old Starling to let her go. There would be another two months of drug-less rehabilitation at another facility.

And this time there would be no visitors until her release. Then she would be cast back into the world, ready or not. Now Bond needed a diversion, and he realized the words they had exchanged on his first visit would have to be forgotten until later. Much later. Then they would be forced to start from the beginning.

After M issued his 'demotion' for Bond there was little true work to be done. It was a little of this and a lot of that but nothing really important. Bond needed a diversion until his punishment was over and the boredom was sinking in deep. He'd even entertained thoughts resignation again. But it was all a part of M's grand plan, and Bond would give the old man a chance to make good on his promise.

As he prowled around the office aimlessly, Moneypenny watched him carefully, looking like the cat that ate the canary.

"Well James. How does it feel – being just a regular employee?"

"Like hell," he snarled.

"You were never fair. You were always leaving. Just in time to get out of our dinner date."

Bond laughed.

"You're right Penny. Well this time I won't do it – we'll go for that dinner I've been promising."

"Do you swear James?" she said and suddenly lifted herself with airs of dignity.

"I do swear it," he said. "Where do you want to go."

Grinning from ear to ear, she extracted the pencil from behind her ear and tapped the desk.

"There's that little place they just opened a few months ago. I've been dying to go there. What is it?"

Bond shrugged clueless.

"Fontanes – you know that cozy little French restaurant over the water."

Bond humbly conceded; or least he appeared to when a text notice sounded loudly on his mobile. He raised a finger to put their conversation on pause and extracted the phone. He had a text message. It read:

'We've clipped the Shaggy Dog,

and it looks like I'm free for a while.

I was thinking about your promise.

I could use a little help getting the Breisis

back to Marseille.

Let me know,

Love Tánger.'

Already, Moneypenny had a frightful look of concern.

"James," was all she could say. "Don't tell me."

"I'm afraid so my dear. There's been a dreadful occurrence… someone's lost the state secrets. Afraid I'll have to be underway at once."

The airs of dignity left Moneypenny as quickly as a punctured balloon.

"James! You will return and make good on your promise. You promised."

"Now, now, now Penny. Don't you fret. Of course I will."

With this Bond took the phone and texted a response.

:

'Will catch the next flight to Palma.

Your Servant James'

**The End**

:

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A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews, favs, and follows... and most of all, for reading.


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